Problems Various and Sundry
by Freckles04
Summary: Kiann Surana, reluctant Grey Warden, struggles against the darkness in her life in order to overcome the darkness threatening Ferelden.
1. Escape

_A/N: The world and characters of Dragon Age belong to BioWare, and I offer that company my deepest thanks for encouraging community creations._

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**Escape**

I, Kiann Surana--mage, Grey Warden, solver of problems various and sundry--was afraid to close my eyes.

Yes, I know. Stupid. I'd faced down horrible monsters that spewed from the bowels of the earth. I'd vanquished bandits, ghosts, the walking dead, and an entire pack of werewolves--the latter by convincing the old Dalish Keeper to revoke his curse, but still. Vanquished. Most recently I'd stormed through the halls of my old home, obliterating a score of abominations and dozens of blood mages. I'd even outsmarted a sloth demon in the Fade. Truly, I was a force unparalleled in all of Ferelden. Not bad for a slip of an elf barely out of her apprenticehood.

And I'd been staring at the roof of my tent for the last Maker-knows-how-many hours, terrified of what awaited me in my dreams.

The darkspawn nightmares didn't scare me--no, that was a lie. They did. But once Alistair had warned me of them, I'd been able to block them out easily. No, what worried me more was the visions that filled my mind every time I closed my eyes; visions of the monstrous pride demon that was once Uldred, grabbing for me, imprisoning my hands, and beginning the chant that would twist my mind and soul into an abomination. No matter how I tried--and, Maker, I _tried_--I couldn't force those apparitions away.

Some Grey Warden I was. Some mage. How was I going to face down the archdemon if the memories of a dead demon shook me this badly?

Well, it wasn't like it was my choice to be a Warden. Damn Jowan and his stupid scheme. If he'd only been honest with me, maybe we could have avoided Irving and Greagoir. Maybe he and Lily would have escaped and I wouldn't have been conscripted. It still hurt that my best friend hadn't trusted me enough to tell me the truth…but I did hope that, wherever he'd ended up, he'd found a bit of happiness. Not like me. Sure, I'd seen more of Ferelden now than I'd ever dreamed, but I'd trade it all for my new mage quarters back at the Tower. Instead I was stuck sleeping on the ground, with Alistair's crappy lamb and pea stew congealing in my stomach, trying to figure out how by Andraste's sanctified girdle I was going to save Ferelden from itself. And right now, I couldn't drum up the will to care what happened to the blighted country.

I needed a break.

I almost discarded the thought out of hand, but it didn't want to let me go. A break was exactly what I yearned for. A reprieve from the sameness of camp, the doom hanging overhead, the pressure of the next quest. We weren't too far from The Spoiled Princess, the little tavern on the shores of Lake Calenhad. A thrill raced through me at the idea of a mini-rebellion. I wasn't due on watch until just before dawn. I could sneak there and back without anyone knowing. The only thing missing from my plan was someone to share it with. My smile fell a little, but then I shook my head. It didn't matter--it would still be fun.

I rose and pulled on a linen shirt and breeches instead of my customary robes. There wasn't any point in announcing to the other patrons that I was a mage; that would just be asking for trouble. I poked my head beyond my tent flap and cast my gaze about, looking for Sten. I couldn't see him, but I could hear his steps on the opposite side of camp as he patrolled.

Excellent. Excitement quivered through me as I bolted from my tent. Sam, my mabari, fell into step behind me without a sound, and we scampered into the night surrounding the camp. It took longer than I'd thought to return to the shores of the lake. Despite the late hour, The Spoiled Princess was awash in light and sound. Music poured from the cracked windows, and laughter, and song, everything I ached to be part of. A smile tugged on my lips as I marched up to the door and wrenched it open.

A band of minstrels in the corner were shouting a ditty about a maid who went to Denerim to find a husband. Heat rose in my cheeks at the raunchy lyrics, but the crowd laughed and cheered and sang along to the chorus, so I supposed it was a popular song. I let the noise buoy me along to the bar, where I slapped down a pair of coins and was rewarded with a tankard frothing with ale. Marvellous. I hoisted myself up onto a stool, Sam stationed at my feet, and took a long draught.

This was…perfect.

I'd started on my second tankard when the band switched to a song made for dancing. My smile grew and I tapped my feet against the post of the stool.

"And what's a pretty lass like you doing sitting at the bar?" The owner of the voice at my ear was a handsome human, dark hair, light eyes, who slurred his words just a little bit. Not enough to matter.

"Well, I suppose it's because I haven't been asked to dance yet," I said, a coy smile curving my lips.

"Oh, I can change that!" he declared, and swept me off to the dance floor.

My dance partner swung me into steps I didn't know, but I caught on quickly. I whirled around the floor, laughing, feeling lighter than I had in months. Oh, if I could only stay here forever. Forget Ferelden, forget the darkspawn, forget the sodding archdemon. Let someone else take care of it. I was having far too much fun to care about any of it.

By my fourth tankard of ale, I was feeling pleasantly fuzzy. A tad blurry, even. A hiccup snuck past my lips and I and my dance partner giggled. I still didn't know his name, but he had a nice giggle. And a nice smile. And nice eyes, too. I wondered if he had a nice kiss.

I could find out, I realized. There was nothing stopping me. I was out from under the Chantry's supervision, away from Wynne's watchful eyes, and maybe…maybe I could imagine I was kissing Alistair instead. Oh, that would be nice. Not that I would ever do it for real--he was a templar. It would just be…wrong. But I could pretend. My fellow Warden did have nice lips, after all, and his chest was delightfully sculpted--or, at least it seemed to be, the few times I'd seen him come back from bathing, half-dressed and dripping…

A frightened gasp and a shout pulled me from my reverie. I blinked a few times before I realized what I was seeing. Flames danced on each of the tables surrounding me; not big fires, but they tingled with magic.

Oops.

"Maker's breath," my dance partner slurred from his seat beside me.

"Um." My eyes narrowed as I concentrated, but the magic squirmed away from me, dancing as expertly as the flames on the tables. I giggled as I tried to grasp it with mental hands and failed. The fires surged and I dimly realized that people were shouting and racing for the exit. "Sorry, sorry," I muttered to no one in particular.

All right. Fire wasn't listening to me right now, so let's try…ice. I pulled together enough wits to summon a blizzard. Cold air and snow blasted through the tavern and I found myself flat on the floor, laughing between shivers. My dance partner scowled down at me and I snorted, then coughed as the scent of charred wood infiltrated my lungs.

"That was you?" he demanded. "You're a mage?"

The fury in his eyes penetrated the bubble of fuzziness surrounding me. I swallowed, my throat gone suddenly dry and my giggles dissipating into nothingness.

"Sorry?" I whispered.

My head spun as I was jerked to my feet. A gasp burst from my lips as my arms were wrenched behind me and tears pricked my eyes at the pain. "Bind her hands!" someone shouted.

Sam growled and lunged at one of the men, only to be kicked away. Another man grabbed a chair and struck the mabari with it, once, twice...I lost count of how many times. My throat burned, raw from screaming at them to stop.

"You think it's fun, scaring folk, do you?" My dance partner leaned in close, his face ugly and twisted with anger. He spat, and the wet landed on my cheek and dripped down onto my shirt.

Fear burned off the last of the ale's effects and I stared at the man who'd smiled so widely at me only a few moments before. His eyes were blue, I realized, and as cold as the blizzard whimpering to its conclusion. "It--it was an accident," I stammered. "I didn't mean--"

"Come on, lads, let's show the mages at the Tower that we ain't scared of their ilk." My dance partner waved at the man holding me to follow him.

I planted my heels, trying to halt the progress to the door. I didn't know what they planned, but I'd heard tales from other apprentices about villagers attacking them when their magic manifested, or blaming them for a failed crop or other malady that befell the settlement. Some had been pelted with stones; others had been tied to posts and left without water for days; others had been thrown into deep, dark holes until the templars had come to retrieve them.

Panic choked me. "No--wait! I'm a Grey Warden," I shouted.

My dance partner stopped, then spun to face me. I thought for a moment he was going to let me go, but, instead, he wound up and punched me in the stomach. The air jolted out of my lungs and I gasped, feeling like I was suffocating.

"That," he growled, "was for good King Cailan. I was just going to tie you to the docks for the templars to retrieve you, but now I think we'll do something a little more special."

"Please," I whimpered as they pulled me along again. Terror made my knees weak and I stumbled. I cried out as the man holding my arms yanked them even higher. "I didn't mean it," I sobbed. "I'm sorry."

"Some Grey Warden," the man behind me scoffed. "Aren't they supposed to be fearsome warriors or some such?"

Not me. The words caught in my throat as they dragged me into the forest surrounding The Spoiled Princess. I'm just a girl, an elf, no one special. I tried to help a friend and ended up losing my home and became something I know nothing about. I'm no warrior!

I screamed as the first punch connected with my nose and something crunched. Warmth gushed forth and I blinked in shock and pain. They'd broken my nose. I looked up in time to see another fist arcing for my face; that one cracked into my cheekbone. I fell backwards and the fellow gripping my arms released them. I tumbled to the dirt, stray rocks and twigs digging into my back and legs but I hardly felt them over the agony pulsing through my face. I reached for the magic haphazardly, but it didn't respond. It couldn't--I had no focus, my brain reeling from terror and disbelief and lack of sleep, and even the adrenaline coursing in my blood couldn't help fix that.

A boot thrust into my midsection and I retched, one hand braced on the ground. Get up, get away, run, my terrified mind commanded. But my body wouldn't--couldn't--obey. Another kick sent me flying onto my side, and then I was pummelled by feet and fists, as the villagers took out their frustrations and their fear on me.

I didn't fight back. I couldn't. A boot heel cracked into my temple and consciousness mercifully began drifting away. Distantly, I heard the rustles of clothing, like someone was stripping themselves, then a disgusted admonition. The meaning of the sounds was lost on me, though, as I faded into nothing.


	2. Broken

**Broken**

"Oh, holy Maker."

Alistair's voice, but it sounded odd. Had I slept past my watch? I'd never hear the end of it if I had. He always seemed to harp on the little things like that, joking and poking fun. I didn't mind, not really; it reminded me a lot of Jowan, actually, the friendship I'd had and lost.

"Sten--please, cut her down."

I felt something give and I fell, only to be caught and cushioned against a breastplate warmed from the sun. Funny how my eyes wouldn't open. I tried again, then gave up. I was so tired. Maybe I could convince Alistair to take my watch too? I could buy him some cheese to make up for it. He liked cheese.

"Kiann, can you hear me?"

What kind of cheese would he like? I really had no idea. What kind of cheeses were there? Mild cheddar, sharp cheddar, goat cheese, soft cheese, brie from Orlais...I'd only ever had that once, but I remembered how it tasted so lovely, all melty and gooey with walnuts and cranberries. What a treat it had been.

"Wynne? Why isn't she answering me?"

That was an strange tone to hear in the templar's voice. Seriousness, maybe a twinge of fear. He never sounded like that. He was always laughing. He had a face made for laughing, truly. Those little lines that crinkled at the edges of his eyes when he smiled...there was something about them that made me want to smooth them over and make them reappear, all at once. How peculiar.

"Put her down, Alistair. Let me have a look." Wynne now, her voice calm and calming, just like I remembered it from the Circle. I sort of wished I'd had her for a mentor--though I imagine I would have driven her batty with my antics. "Son, you need to put her down. Please."

The breastplate left me. Gentle hands prodded my face and torso instead. Pain throbbed through me, so constant I barely felt any of the touches. Why was I hurting? Was I wounded? Had there been a darkspawn attack?

_"I think we'll do something a little more special."_

"No! Please!" I wrenched my eyes open. Images blurred together in front of me. I swung my hands about, crying at the agony, but I had to get away. Had to. "Please, don't. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. It was an accident. It won't happen again." I was blubbering, I knew I was blubbering, but I didn't know what else to do to make them understand and not hurt me anymore.

"Kiann, please."

I knew that voice--I'd just heard it, hadn't I?--but panic had me firmly in its grip. My palm connected with something and I latched onto it. A hand, an arm--it didn't matter. "I didn't mean it, I didn't, I swear by Andraste's pyre. Please don't hurt me. Please..."

"Wynne--by the Maker." The voice cracked. "Do something."

A cool hand rested in my forehead. "Sleep, child."

And I did.

###

I woke to someone lifting my head and tipping a bit of water past my lips, just enough to chase away the dust accumulating on my tongue. The hand at the back of my neck was gentle, remarkably so. I sighed and blinked my eyes open. They didn't want to work, refusing to focus. I saw the canvas of the tent first, the dim lantern, then the person beside me took form.

"Alistair?"

He looked at me for a moment, his face unreadable. "Yes, it's me."

No jokes. No smiles. Why was he here instead of Wynne? That made no sense.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked quietly.

I did. All of it. I closed my eyes and nodded.

"Good. That's good." He blew out a breath. "Then would you mind explaining why in the Maker's name you snuck out of camp, without telling anyone?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time?" I cracked my eyes open to see him glaring at me.

"No, you don't get to make light of this," he growled. "You nearly got yourself killed. Killed, Kiann. Not merely wounded or badly hurt. Wynne wasn't sure--" He broke off and shook his head, staring at the floor of the tent. After a moment, he met her eyes again. "You are a Grey Warden. You have responsibilities. People are depending on you."

"Well, who asked them to?" I snapped, closing my eyes again to shut out the disappointment cascading over the templar's face. "I certainly didn't. I never wanted to leave the Circle. That was Irving's plan for me, Irving's and Duncan's. I never wanted this!"

"We don't always get to make our own choices."

I waved a hand at him. "Says Mr. Make-Me-a-Grey-Warden-as-Fast-as-You-Can."

"You expect me to apologize for wanting to be a Warden? I won't. Being a Warden is an honor. You should be proud that Duncan recruited you, not acting like a foolish child."

My eyes slitted open at the growled accusation. Alistair glowered at me, his brows low over his hazel eyes.

"Maybe I was wrong about you," he admitted. "I thought you were better than this. Better than endangering our mission for a couple of hours of irresponsibility."

"How do you--"

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not stupid. I asked around after we found you. It didn't take long to learn how you'd ended up tied to the branches of a tree." He rose, shaking his head. "Part of me is glad that--that Duncan isn't here to see this."

That stung. I sucked in a breath. "Alistair--"

"No. I think--I think I'm done talking with you for now." He turned and slipped out of the tent.

I stared at the tent flap for a long moment, something in my chest twisting. Then I rolled over to face the opposite wall. It didn't matter what Alistair thought of me. He was a templar, for the Maker's sake. When had I ever cared about what the templars thought?

I hadn't. And I'd be foolish to start caring now.

###

The days blurred together. I wasn't sure how long I'd been stuck in the tent, unable to do more than rise to use the chamberpot. Wynne visited me two or three times a day, changing my bandages and letting healing magic trickle through me, but there was only so much magic could do. In time, my physical wounds faded into half-remembered aches, marked only by the scars I now sported on my torso, arms, neck, and face, but there was a hollow place under my breastbone that burned as hotly as Andraste's holy pyre.

Alistair had not come to see me again. I heard his voice ring throughout the camp occasionally, so I knew he hadn't abandoned our cause. He hadn't abandoned me.

I rubbed the heel of my palm over the empty spot in my chest, as though the pressure would make it go away. Wynne's eyes drifted to the movement, then met mine.

"Tell me," she said, her pleasant alto voice soothing to my ears, "what does being a Grey Warden mean to you?"

"I--" Frowning, I shrugged. "Does it have to mean anything? Killing darkspawn, I guess."

"There's more to it than that, surely."

"Maybe you should be asking Alistair. He knows more about it than I do."

The old mage's mouth curved in a gentle smile. "I'm not interested in what he knows. I'm interested in what you feel."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "It doesn't matter. That's what I am now, right? Regardless of what it means to me."

Wynne was silent for a moment as she removed the last of my bandages and sat back. "You did not want to be a Grey Warden."

"No. I can honestly say that until the moment Duncan slapped me with the Right of Conscription, it had never even dawned on me as a possibility."

"I see." Wynne tidied up her medical supplies in silence for a few moments. "Do you hate him for that?"

"Do I--" I blinked. _Did_ I hate Duncan for ripping me away from the only home I'd ever known, the only home I'd ever wanted? I resented it, surely, but hatred? "No, I don't--I don't hate him."

"Change is difficult, especially when it's thrust upon us with no warning," the white-haired mage said, nodding. "Destinies are fluid things, flowing into place and back again, often with us having little or no say about it. We may not be able to choose what happens to us, but we can always choose how to react. We can scream and cry and wish that things were different, or we can embrace what the Maker has intended for us."

I snorted. "That's nonsense."

Wynne's lips twisted as she pushed up from her position at the side of my cot. "Maybe so. Let that poultice soak in, and then I want to see you up and about for the rest of the day. You don't need to be abed any longer." With a last gentle smile, she pushed out of the tent.

The ache in my chest pulsed a little harder with her absence, and I found myself mulling over what the elder mage had said. Wondering.


	3. Mending

**Mending**

After a few hours of being on my feet, strolling around the camp, and feeling the sun on my face, the empty spot in my chest started to diminish. It didn't fade entirely, but it did shrink enough that it no longer prodded me when I breathed. Unless I looked at Alistair, and his darkened eyes. Or Sten, and his disapproving glare. Even Zevran's easy smile had an edge to it I hadn't seen before.

The only one of my companions who didn't look at me differently was Morrigan, and she'd always despised me anyway. I had no idea why she stuck with us when she obviously hated every moment in our company.

Leliana had made a pot of soup for supper, with lovely tender-crisp beans and carrots and peas. I savored every mouthful and tried not to notice the tension spiraling around the campfire, poorly masked by the silence of my friends and the crackling of the flames.

"In the morning, we head for Haven," I announced. My companions hardly acknowledged that I spoke, except for a couple of shared, questioning glances. "Leliana, do you still have Brother Genitivi's notes?"

"Yes," the bard responded in her lilting voice. "But, are you--"

I waved away the concern in her voice. "I'm fine. We've--" I stopped, my eyes on Alistair. He stared at his bowl, not meeting my gaze. "_I've_ made us waste too much time already. We'll track down the Urn of Sacred Ashes, then go to Redcliffe. It doesn't hurt to be prepared, right?"

My weak attempt at humor fell flat. A few weeks ago, the comment would have elicited smiles at minimum, maybe a rueful shake of the head from Morrigan. But no longer. My ill-advised adventure had cost me more than my once-flawless skin.

"I--" What should I say? What _could_ I say? The words stuck in my throat. Sam whined beside me and nudged my hand. I rubbed his head absently, my eyes on my friends, then lurched to my feet. I leaned heavily on my staff as I made my way to my tent.

Not a single one of my companions wished me a good night.

###

My strength returned quickly as we journeyed to the strange little town of Haven. By the time we finally reached the resting place of Andraste's ashes, I'd added crazy cultists and drakes to my list of creatures vanquished.

Funny how it seemed less impressive now.

I didn't imagine the pity in the eyes of the spirit that guarded the ashes, but nor did I welcome it. I answered his questions as honestly as I could, understanding that now was not the time to avoid the truth. I tried to keep myself detached from the feeling of awe and peace that permeated this place. But it seeped into me. I felt it tugging at my soul, trying to heal it, but I stubbornly refused to let it. It was just the magic embedded in the walls of the temple. I could feel it pulsing like a heartbeat, like breaths, like the walls themselves were alive. The Tower felt similar--not the same, not on the same magnitude, but similar enough that I recognized the oddness for what it was. Not the touch of the Maker. He and His bride were gone from this world, and they cared nothing for the people left in it.

Something in me broke a little as I spoke with the vision of Jowan that was not Jowan, but I didn't have time to indulge in self-pity. I took a pinch of the ashes and deposited it into a leather pouch I'd brought just for that purpose, and we left.

The cultists had abandoned the ruins, perhaps fleeing back to Haven for reinforcements. If so, we needed to hurry. I was thankful I'd managed to convince Brother Genitivi, who we'd found captive in the town's Chantry, to make his way back to Denerim rather than accompany us. He was an earnest man, and he didn't deserve to die in a half-collapsed ancient cathedral, no matter how long he'd searched for it.

The thrill of victory, of a task completed, thrummed in my veins. An inordinate amount of hope surged within me as well. Whatever ailed the Arl of Redcliffe, we could defeat it. We would.

The open door loomed before us, and I quickened my pace.

"Warden, wait!"

Leliana's warning came too late. My foot brushed something and an explosion shoved me forward like a massive fist thrust into the centre of my back. I landed hard on the ground, skidding over the snow onto the ancient stone floor. I tried to use my staff to halt myself, but only succeeded in cracking it in two. I sucked in a sharp breath as hurts I'd thought healed protested the abuse. I cast a look over my shoulder. Wynne was down, not moving, Leliana motionless beside her. Alistair had fallen to one knee and was shaking his head in an attempt to clear it.

A reaver charged out of hiding at the templar, his enormous two-handed sword raised above his head. Alistair didn't see him, or maybe he hadn't regained enough wits to understand what he was seeing. I cried out and cast the first spell that came to mind, freezing the attacker in mid-stride. Another spell rushed past my lips as I rose to my feet, and a bolt of electricity shot from my hands, shattering the enemy.

A second reaver burst forth and thrust the pommel of his sword against Alistair's temple. The templar crumpled to the ground and didn't move. My throat seized, trapping an anguished cry within my chest. The reaver stepped around Alistair's still form, his eyes on me.

A third enemy moved forward, then a fourth. Maker...I couldn't do this on my own! My mana was halfway spent, and I didn't have any lyrium potions to bolster it. I'd given them all to Wynne to make sure she would always have enough power to heal the party. Words tripped through my lips and multiple forks of lightning spewed from my fingers. The reavers slowed but didn't stop. I stumbled over to Alistair's side, my eyes never leaving the opponents slowly encircling me. I cast the Shock spell again, depleting the last of my mana.

Oh, by Andraste. What now? No staff, no power, no templar warrior to help me. Part of me wanted to lay down on the floor and just give up. I was no one special, after all, just an elf who could do a bit of magic.

Boots. Fists. Striking me, breaking me, diminishing me.

_No._ I would not give up again.

I wrapped my fingers around the hilt of Alistair's sword, prying it from his lax fingers. It was heavy, heavier than I'd thought it would be. It took all of my strength to hold it upright in front of me and Maker knew if I'd actually be able to swing it.

The reavers stopped their advance. One of the them chuckled. "Never thought I'd see it, lads." He snorted. "A little elfling mage with a sword. Watch she doesn't fall on it and impale herself, now." His eyes narrowed, glittering. "I'd hate to miss out on the kill."

I searched my mind for the knowledge I sought, plumbing into the depths reserved for magic. I'd never thought to use that particular skill--Maker, the idea of me wielding a sword in battle was worse than ludicrous, and I hadn't been certain how much I could trust the disembodied thoughts and feelings and memories I'd absorbed from the ancient phylactery in the Brecilian Forest. But I was out of ideas. And desperate.

I closed my eyes. _I want to know_, I whispered soundlessly. _I _need_ to know._

Knowledge rushed through me like blood from a shattered phylactery and my eyes jolted wide. I didn't see the armored men surrounding me, but visions of elves in chainmail and plate armor, wielding magic and weapons with equal mastery. Strength flowed through me as my body adapted to using my innate magic as its power source rather than my meager stamina. The sword in my hands suddenly was easier to lift, and I _knew_ how to swing it without amputating my own arm. Confidence, such an odd thing, spurted in my chest. I could do this. I really could.

With a cry, I swung the sword over my head like the vision had shown me and thrust it toward the nearest reaver. It sank through a chink in his armor, the sensation of muscle and bone scraping against the blade a feeling I knew and yet didn't know. Revulsion burned my throat, but I didn't have time for reaction. I withdrew the sword and spun to face the next reaver. He'd recovered from the shock of seeing a mage wielding a weapon--and wielding it relatively well--and raised his shield to block my strike. I danced to the side, following the steps laid out in my mind's eye, then turned and cast Cone of Cold with the little bit of mana I'd regained. The remaining two reavers froze and I slashed at them with my borrowed weapon. One I managed to hit hard enough that he shattered; the second thawed in time to welcome my sword through his gut.

I yanked my blade free, and stood over the body, breathing heavily. I'd--I'd done it. And it had been...well, not easy, but I'd settled into the motions and movements like I'd been born to it. And the confidence brought by the rushing of knowing...it hadn't faded. How very, very odd.

The templar stirred. His sword clattered from my hand as I rushed to his side. A goose-egg of a bump graced his temple, purple and red, and he blinked up at me with eyes that wouldn't focus.

"Kiann? Where are the reavers?" He gave his head a shake, then pressed a gauntleted hand against his temple, mouthing _ow_.

"Dead. I killed them." I touched fingers to his forehead and called forth the one healing spell I knew.

"Thanks." His eyes cleared and he looked around as he pushed himself to his feet. "You--you killed them? All of them? Alone?"

"Well, I--I borrowed your sword," I admitted, feeling suddenly sheepish. I wasn't sure why, but the urge to apologize for that swept through me. I bit my lip.

"You borrowed my--" He frowned. "What?"

I shook my head, then darted to Wynne's side as she moaned. "It's not important," I called to Alistair. "Let's get the three of you back to camp, shall we? The sooner you rest up, the sooner we can be on the road to Redcliffe."

"Right." Alistair's eyes dimmed. "Redcliffe. About that--"

A groan interrupted the templar and I rushed to Leliana's side. By the time I'd helped her sit up, Alistair had moved beyond the open door to scout the passageway beyond, and no longer wanted to meet my eyes, or talk.

We limped back to camp in silence.


	4. Learning

**Learning**

I waited until the rest of the party retired before approaching Alistair at his seat by the fire. I'd offered to sit watch with him, since he was still complaining of a headache from the final attack at the ruined temple. Guilt twinged in my chest, but I pushed it aside. A bit of exercise would do him good, probably.

His eyes jolted up to mine as I planted my feet in front of him, and his brow furrowed. I held Spellweaver in my hands, its point touching the dirt in front of my leather boot. Faint lightning crackled along its silverite length, thanks to a minor enchantment Sandal had bestowed upon the strange blade I'd recovered during our quest for the ashes. Despite it only being in my possession for a short time, the sword seemed to mold itself to me, fitting into my grip as though it had been forged with me in mind.

"Teach me," I said.

"What? Teach you?" Surprise curved his lips as his eyes travelled from mine to the blade in my hands. "Kiann, I think it's great that you managed to defeat the reavers with my sword, but swords aren't really a good tool for mages--"

I arched a brow, then launched into the steps of a dance that flitted through my mind. Step, parry, block, thrust, every motion as poetic as the last. I felt for a moment like I was at a royal ball instead of in a clearing lit by golden flames. I lunged forward in the final movement, Spellweaver extended in front of me, and straightened. My lips stretched in a wide smile, and my skin was hot, flushed with triumph.

"By the Maker," Alistair breathed, scrambling to his feet. "How did you...where did you learn that?"

I laughed, feeling lighter and freer and more _me_ than I had in...well, a very long time. "The ruins in Brecilian Forest. Remember the ancient phylactery?"

He frowned. "The one with the revenant?"

"No, the other one. The one I stared at for a long time, then destroyed." I raised a brow. "Didn't you wonder what I was doing that whole time?"

"Debating what you should do with it, I thought."

"No, silly." Before I could think better of it, I smacked a hand against his upper arm. Not a gesture I would normally make, because...well, _templar_; but tonight, with the thrill of discovery pumping through me, I didn't care. "I was learning. Ancient elven combat magic. Isn't it wonderful?" I poked Spellweaver's point into the dirt, gently, and spun around it. "I can fight. I know...not everything, not even close, but so much more than I'd ever dreamed, Alistair. I know how to wield a sword. How to block a thrust, how to strike, how to parry...combat forms...oh! How to hold a shield! Can I practice with yours?"

"Wait. Just...wait." He rubbed a hand over his brow. "You're telling me that you learned swordplay from a vial of blood?" He blinked. "That's...rather disturbing, actually."

"Not the blood itself, the spirit of the mage trapped within it."

"Oh, well, that makes it so much better."

I frowned and shook my head. "What's the problem? It's a dead art, Alistair. I'm the last--"

"Did you ever stop to think that there might be a reason that magic died out?" He crossed his arms over his chest, the plates of his armor rasping together.

I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. "No," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean it's not useful." My eyes narrowed. "You're just jealous."

"Jealous?" Alistair sputtered. "Why in the Maker's name would I be jealous?"

"Because I just learned how to pick up a sword today and I have better form than you do."

"You have--" The templar snorted with laughter. "Oh, you _so_ don't."

"It's true. I'm an elf. Elves are just naturally more graceful than humans. It's a known fact, don't try to deny it." I mimicked his stance, my arms crossed over my chest, and looked down my nose at him. Or, rather, up. He did have about a foot in height on me. "Ergo, my form will be more innately perfect than yours."

"Maker's breath, Kiann." He ran a hand through his short hair, making it stand up even more raggedly at the front. "Form is important, yes, but when you're up against darkspawn or bandits or whatever else ends up trying to kill us, it matters little. You need strength. You need stamina. And even with this fancy new magical knowledge you have, mages aren't equipped for that."

I pressed my lips into a thin line. "Try me."

He stared at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to protest, or refuse, or something. But instead, he threw his hands into the air. "Fine. Fine! But you're going to do the explaining to Wynne when you need patching up."

"All right." A smile danced over my lips. I bounced on the balls of my feet, excitement preventing me from standing still.

"Kiann, I'll try not to hurt you, but--"

"Don't hold back," I told him. "Don't you dare."

"I'm going to end up in the Black City after this," Alistair muttered as he led me a short distance from the fire. We were close enough to benefit from its light, but not so close one of us might accidentally stumble into it. "I hope you're happy."

"I will be," I said with a smile, "when I beat you."

"I don't think so." His eyes glimmered in the firelight as he unlatched his sword and shield from his back. The shield he placed at the edge of our impromptu ring. "Just swords," he said.

"Sounds good to me," I said. I smiled, and attacked.

Our swords rang against each other, a counter melody to the rumble of the fire. Laughter bubbled up from my gut, robust and real. A smile darted across Alistair's face as he heard it, quickly replaced by a stern look of concentration as he engaged me with all of his skills. He didn't hold back, as I'd asked. After a few moments, I noticed a gleam in his eyes I hadn't seen before, and he gave me a nod of acknowledgment as I continued to meet and parry and block his blows with ease.

I felt _alive_. That was the only way to describe it, and even that didn't quite encompass all of the emotions roaring through me. With every step, every clash of blades, I felt strong. In control. Powerful. Not in a "quake before the might of Kiann" kind of way, but in a quietly confident, "I can do this" way. It was like...like a part of me had been missing until now, until this, a part that I hadn't even known existed. And with it snapped back into place in my psyche, everything was different. _I_ was different.

I wasn't scared anymore. Whatever Duncan had seen in me...maybe I was starting to see it too.

My sword flattened against Alistair's and I darted in close, our blades crossed between us. Sweat glistened along his brow and his eyes blazed with some emotion I didn't recognize. The tang of sweat and metal and man surrounded me, not unpleasant. Definitely not unpleasant. Unbidden, my eyes drifted to his lips, so close to mine. He really did have very nice lips: strong, full but not too full, quick to smile. That last bit was the best part.

I caught my lower lip between my teeth as I wondered what he'd taste like.

No. Uh, no. Templar, remember?

I staggered back from him and Spellweaver dropped from my nerveless fingers. "Well, I..." I cleared my throat. "That was educational."

"Right. Educational." I couldn't quite tell in the dim light, but were his cheeks flushed? He latched his sword to its place on his back, then strode forward to retrieve Spellweaver for me, his movements jerky, uncertain. So different from the confidence he'd displayed during our sparring. He held it out to me.

"Yes, certainly. I, uh...thanks." I gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands and tapped its point into the dirt repeatedly. "How are you feeling?" I asked suddenly. "Better?"

The look he gave me was somewhat pained. "Oh, the headache's gone."

"Good. That's good." Maker's breath. Could this be any more awkward? "I guess I'll, uh, head to bed." The tips of my pointed ears burned as I realized what I'd said. Totally inappropriate images flashed through my mind: sparring with Alistair of a very different sort.

Dear Andraste.

"Right." He coughed and busied himself with retrieving his shield. "Good night, Kiann."

I whimpered. And fled to my tent.

###

The sun was high overhead, terrifically warm, but a foreboding chill seemed to dwell along the path as we approached the tiny village of Redcliffe. I glanced at Alistair. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet and reserved as we trudged down the road to his former home. I chalked it up to bad memories. I knew he was an orphan and that Arl Eamon had taken him in after his mother died, but it sounded like his childhood had been a lonely one. As separate as I'd been from the rest of Ferelden, growing up in the Circle, at least I'd been accepted. From what Alistair had told me, he never had been.

A militiaman stood in the middle of the stone bridge before us and I strode forward, determined to demand an audience with the Arl. A hand tugging on mine pulled me up short and I glanced down, surprised. Alistair's armored fingers lingered, tracing the lines of my palm, before he pulled away.

"Can we talk for a moment?" He glanced at the militiaman, at the ground, at the rushing waterfall--anywhere but at me. "I, uh, have to tell you something that I...probably should have told you earlier."

"Alistair..." Maker, but the man had the worst timing. "Can it wait? We need to get to the Arl with the ashes. We're so close now."

"Right. Yes, of course." He nodded.

"Once we're back at camp, I promise you'll have my full attention."

"Your full attention, is it." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Heat flowed over my skin. Was he--was he flirting with me? In front of Leliana and Wynne? "Well, you have more things to teach me, right?"

Leliana smothered a giggle behind her hand. Wynne suddenly found the patterns of the clouds fascinating. Belatedly I realized that what I'd said could be taken in so many ways that I had absolutely not meant.

"Like fighting! Swordplay." Oh, Andraste's mercy, that could be a euphemism. "I mean, stroking with my sword--striking! Striking!" I groaned and covered my face with my hands. "I give up."

"My dear Warden," Leliana said between snorting giggles, "I had not thought that anyone could be more adorably awkward than Alistair. I'm happy to report that you have proven me wrong."

"Wonderful. I'm so happy. No, really." I sighed. "Let's just go save the Arl."


	5. Hurt

**Hurt**

Of course, nothing is ever that easy. Why did I suddenly think that we'd have a clear path to the Arl? Recruit the Dalish to join the Grey Warden army…oh, but you'll need to cure them of the werewolf curse first. Recruit the mages to help…oh, but you'll need to cleanse the Tower before you do. Maker's breath. It never ended.

At Redcliffe, we faced an undead army of unknown origin that had attacked the village again and again, killing indiscriminately. No one had spoken to the Arlessa or Arl Eamon for at least a week; no one knew if anyone still lived in the castle. Bann Teagan, the Arl's brother, had pleaded with us to help, and I couldn't say no. Something had passed between him and Alistair, some minute detail of affection as Teagan recognized the boy who'd grown up at Redcliffe, and I wondered if this man had been the only one who had ever offered Alistair any emotional warmth.

My heart twisted at the thought.

Although Redcliffe offered nothing new to add to my list of vanquished creatures--I'd been up against the undead in the Brecilian Forest--swinging a sword through them instead of using a mage's staff…that was _interesting_. And beyond thrilling. Maybe the thought of me wielding a sword in battle wasn't so ludicrous after all. I laughed as I cut down skeleton after skeleton, feeling as alive as I had during my sparring with Alistair, perhaps more so. The militiamen gave me odd looks, but they continued fighting beside me. Perhaps they attributed my joy to my general mage strangeness, or maybe because I was a Grey Warden. I knew not.

Alistair was less than pleased to see me wade into the fray, protected by nothing but my robes. Once we'd defended the village from the horde of walking corpses and the rising sun lit the eastern sky, he'd yanked me off to stand apart from the panting militia and demanded to know what I'd been thinking. His fingers had tightened around my bicep, enough to dig painfully into the muscle, and I'd glared at him. Deliberately, I'd jerked my arm out of his grasp, my magic-powered strength making the movement easier than it should have been.

"I did what I had to," I'd said, my voice low and dangerous. "It worked, didn't it? I'm standing here and so is everyone else."

He'd stared at me for a long time, silent, and I'd stared right back. "Just--" He'd shaken his head. "Get some armor, then, for Andraste's sake." He'd hooked his sword and shield to his back and strode away, every muscle in his back rigid.

With anger? Because I was stepping out of my place as a mage, maybe? Perhaps his templar sensibilities didn't know what to make of it. Whatever his problem, I wasn't going to change. I was more than just a mage now, and I felt the rightness of that resonate through the core of my being.

After a short-lived celebration and a quick rest, Teagan had admitted there was a secret passage into the castle. We'd been about to enter it when the Arlessa had appeared, spewing half-truths and ancient resentment. All right--maybe I was a little biased against the woman, but she was the reason Alistair had been sent to the Chantry. That didn't make me predisposed to like the woman. And, Maker, her voice...

I watched Teagan leave, shepherding Isolde back to the castle with an arm draped over her shoulders. Trepidation wound my stomach into knots. I didn't like this, letting the Bann go in alone. Everything in me screamed that it was a Bad Idea, but to stop him I would have had to tie him to the windmill and I wasn't prepared to do that.

The passage through the depths of the cliffs to the castle's dungeon was dark, dank, everything a secret, hardly used tunnel should be. We spilled into a torch-lit corridor and I paused, letting my senses take in our surroundings. My Grey Warden taint cast out, searching for others with the corruption, but found nothing except Alistair's familiar presence.

"Ready?" he breathed. Even his low voice sounded loud in the oppressive silence of the hallway.

I inhaled deeply. "Sure, why not."

We crept forward, opening the first door when Leliana assured us it wasn't trapped. As we passed through, I caught Alistair's eye and jerked my head at the opposite end of the row of cells. A trio of undead had their hands thrust through a barred door, trying to get at whatever was inside the cell. He'd already spotted them and gave me a tight nod of acknowledgement.

"Get away from me!"

I froze. Maker, no. Isolde had mentioned they'd caught a mage poisoning the Arl...

No. It couldn't be him.

I unlatched my sword and rushed forward.

"Maker--Kiann!" Alistair shouted. He spat out another curse, then I felt his presence at my back, as comforting as a hot drink on a cold day.

I threw out a Winter's Grasp and Shock as I approached the walking dead. Alistair bashed his shield against the frozen skeleton and it crumbled to the floor. He danced onto the next, his movements precise and graceful. I took care of the third with a half-dozen strikes, and it fell to the floor, its jaw clattering in true death.

I didn't turn to look at the cell right away. Breathe, Kiann. It might not be him, but even if it is...

"Maker's breath!" Jowan gasped. "It's you!"

"Oh, Jowan." Tears stung my eyes as I stared at my best friend. "You're supposed to be farming somewhere. Remember?"

He gripped the bars of the doors and let his head droop between his braced arms. "Of all the people I thought I might see here, you were not one of them. Not that I'm not happy to see you, I just never thought you'd ever leave the Tower."

"Believe me, it wasn't by choice."

"No?" He glanced up at me. "Oh, Maker. Did I ruin your life too?"

I glanced at Alistair, who returned my quick look with a quirked brow. "Not ruined," I admitted. "Just not something I'd ever dreamed of. I'm a Grey Warden."

"A Grey--" Jowan chuckled, then howled with laughter. "Kiann, you're scared of _mice_. And you're going to kill darkspawn?"

My eyes narrowed. "And maybe captive blood mages if you don't shut up."

Alistair straightened. "A blood mage? Well, that's not good." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, and for the record? That sword isn't for show. I'd suggest you do what she says."

A little tingle of pride wound through me at the almost-compliment from the templar.

"Where in the Maker's name did you learn how to use a sword? No, never mind," he amended. "That's a conversation for another time, another place." He hesitated, then pushed back from the bars. "Kiann, please. I must know. What happened to Lily?"

Lily, the Chantry initiate whom Jowan had fallen in love with and betrayed, just as he had me. The betrayal still stung, but I couldn't hate my friend for what he'd done. We all make mistakes, some of us worse mistakes than others.

"I wish I knew," I said softly. "I would tell you if I did. But I was taken from the Tower immediately after you escaped, and when I returned a short time ago--" I broke off, my throat clogging unexpectedly. "Jowan, why are you here? Whatever possessed you to poison Arl Eamon?"

"Loghain told me--"

Alistair's brows snapped down. "Loghain is behind this? Why am I not surprised."

I wanted to rest a hand on the templar's arm, to soothe away some of the tension rumbling through him, but I didn't know if I should or if it was right, or anything. So I looked back at my wayward friend. "Tell me. Everything, but quickly."

###

After all Loghain had done in the supposed best interests of Ferelden, neither Alistair nor myself were surprised he'd resorted to hiring an apostate to secretly poison the Arl. Eamon would have been the most vocal opponent against Loghain's regency, the one person mostly likely to rally the country against him. If we'd come here sooner, would we have been able to make a difference? If I'd listened to Alistair's advice instead of just letting geography and my own ties decide for me?

I shoved those thoughts out of my mind. They were a distraction I couldn't afford. Not when facing an abomination.

I stared into the eyes of Connor, Isolde's son, and saw nothing but madness. He yet looked human, which was an improvement over the abominations I'd faced in the Tower, but it meant nothing. The wrongness reeked from him like the stench of a corpse. Everyone in the room, everyone not under the demon's influence, felt it to some extent; Wynne, Alistair and myself sensed it a bit more keenly, thanks to our knowledge of the arcane.

The demon baited us, then ran, leaving Bann Teagan as its puppet of destruction. Luckily, when Teagan had said he wasn't the most skilled warrior, it wasn't modesty. He could wield a sword well enough, but he was no challenge for the boy he'd once helped raise.

Isolde rushed forward and offered Teagan a hand up before Alistair could stow his sword and do the same. The Arlessa started moaning about how she'd never forgive herself if Teagan had died and my fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to shake her, scream at her that her foolishness was to blame for the entire situation. If she hadn't tried to hide Connor's developing abilities...if she hadn't resorted to using an apostate to train him...if she hadn't tried to keep all of this a secret...

But shouting at the arling's nobility probably wouldn't be very productive.

"What are our options?" I asked, my heart heavy. I knew what one was...but Maker, please let it not come to that.

"He's an abomination," Alistair said. His voice sounded as weighted as my soul. "I wouldn't normally suggest killing a child, but--"

"No!" Isolde grabbed Teagan's arm. "Please. He's just a boy. This isn't his fault!"

"Isolde, please." The Bann covered her hand with his. "We may not have much choice. Death would be..." He closed his eyes briefly, then continued. "Death would be merciful."

"No! There has to be another way!"

The Arlessa's voice raked across my spirit, leaving gouges that ached, physically. My companions alternated between staring at the floor and chancing quick looks at me, and I knew the decision would be mine to make. Dear Maker. I didn't want to...I didn't want to _do_ this. Kill a little boy?

I took a deep breath, pushing the grief and horror aside, and opened my mouth to speak.

"There might be another option." Jowan stepped into the main hall from where he'd been stationed at the entrance.

"You!" the Arlessa shrieked. "This is your fault. I trusted you."

"Lady Isolde, I'm so sorry." My friend bowed his head.

"How did you get out of the dungeons?" she demanded.

"I let him out," I said, straightening to my full height. "And I stand by my decision. Jowan was a pawn for Loghain, Isolde; he simply thought he was doing what was right."

"How can infiltrating my home to kill my husband be _right_?" The Arlessa vibrated with anger and I thought for a moment she was going to strike out, but she restrained herself. "How can summoning this demon to torment my family be _right_?"

"I didn't summon any demons," Jowan insisted. "But I want to help. Please. Let me try to fix this."

Isolde pressed her lips into a thin line and refused to meet the blood mage's gaze, while Teagan gave a sharp nod.

"We can confront the demon in the Fade," Jowan suggested.

I began shaking my head even before he'd finished. "That takes a half-dozen mages and a huge amount of lyrium. The Circle--" I coughed, masking how my throat tightened at the thought of my former home. "The Circle was annulled, Jowan. There are only a handful of mages left in Ferelden."

"Maker's breath," he whispered. His eyes closed and his shoulders sagged. After a moment, he raised his head, and I saw determination in his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Yes, usually you would need those resources to enter the Fade, but I have blood magic."

"How is more blood magic going to help?" Alistair growled from behind me.

I raised a hand and the templar said no more. Disquiet raced through me at Jowan's suggestion, but we didn't have many options open to us. "Go on."

"The spell I know uses life energy to send a mage into the Fade," Jowan explained. "I can't go because I'm doing the ritual."

"But...I thought the demon was in Connor," Teagan said with a frown.

"Not physically, no."

"So you can confront the demon in the Fade? Destroy it there, and leave Connor unharmed?" Hope lifted the Arlessa's voice. "Truly?"

"Yes, but..." Jowan's shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. "The spell I know uses a lot of a person's life energy. All of it, in fact."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to stomp my feet and throw a tantrum at the unfairness of this whole situation. I wanted to sink to the floor and let someone else handle this.

I stood still and listened.

The Bann rubbed two fingers against his temple. "So you're saying that someone must die for this spell to work."

Jowan nodded. "That--that's exactly it. I'm sorry. It's not much of an option."

"I'll do it." For the first time since I'd met her, Isolde seemed calm and collected. Sure of herself.

"Isolde--" Teagan began.

She laid a hand on his arm and met my eyes. "I will not stand here and let my son die when there is something I could do about it. If this will save Connor, I will gladly give my life."

I glanced behind me at a strangled noise to see Alistair stalk away to the entrance to the corridor and back. He hated blood magic, due in large part to his templar training, and I agreed with him. The idea of this ritual made me feel more tainted than the darkspawn essence flowing through my veins. But when the only other option was killing a little boy...what choice did I have?

"Do it." I gritted my teeth. "I'll enter the Fade. Jowan--" I shook my head and turned to Wynne. "Watch him, please."

The elder mage nodded once, knowing what I meant. While I was in the Fade, I would be vulnerable here. Jowan was my friend, and I loved him like a brother, but he had betrayed me once. He had worked for the man who had declared Alistair and myself enemies of the crown. I wanted to trust him, but I couldn't.

When I turned back to Jowan, I saw the acknowledgment of that in his eyes. And the sorrow. What I wouldn't give to be a teenager in the Tower again, playing games and setting pranks, and just loving life.

Instead of enduring this constant, aching hurt.


	6. Wrenching

**Wrenching**

I hated the Fade.

It was bad enough that I visited it involuntarily every night as I slept. All humans and elves did; it was the dream realm. But to _have_ to go into it, on purpose, for whatever reason....I prayed this would be the last time.

The demon was your typical demon. It tried to kill me more than once, and when it realized that wouldn't work, it tried to bargain with me. It offered me fame, fortune, love, whatever I desired--as long as I let it keep Connor.

I stabbed it through the heart with my sword.

The first thing I saw when I awoke was Alistair leaning over me, his eyes dark and disturbed. "Never again," he said.

"Never again," I agreed. I closed my eyes and sighed, only to jolt them open again as Alistair shook me. "What? I'm fine."

"Just--just checking."

"Can we go back to camp yet?"

"No," Alistair said. "Do you have the ashes?"

Right. The ashes, to cure the Arl. I pushed myself to a sitting position and noticed, for the first time, that Jowan was in the room with us. He sat with his back against the opposite wall, Wynne hovering over him like a watchful mother hen. All evidence of the ritual, including…including Isolde's body, had been removed. In the well-lit sitting room, he looked older. More haggard.

He frowned. "Your face...I didn't notice it before. Maker's mercy, Kiann, where did you get those scars?"

Automatically my hand flew to the right side of my face and traced the pattern of bumps and lines etched into my skin, a reminder of The Spoiled Princess. My stupidity. It was easy to forget about them. I rarely had the opportunity to admire myself in a reflective surface, and my companions had grown accustomed to their presence. But they were far from invisible. I supposed comments like Jowan's would just be something I'd have to get used to, particularly once we were done traipsing around the countryside and ended up amongst actual people again. "It's not important," I said, forcing my hand back to my lap.

"You've changed," he said softly. "I guess we both have, haven't we? We're not children anymore. You're a Grey Warden"--he shook his head, still in disbelief at that fact--"and I'm an apostate. Not the future I'd envisioned." He stared at his feet, unwilling to meet my eyes. "I know--I know my words mean little, but I truly am sorry."

That was the worst of it. Jowan wasn't evil. I'd seen evil, tasted it, taken it within me. Jowan was a fool who'd made terrible choices, but he was not evil. "I know," I breathed.

"I wish..." He looked up, his eyes full of wishes and what-ifs and regrets.

Slowly, I nodded. "Me too."

###

I didn't want to look as Teagan told his brother that I'd killed Isolde. Not that the Bann said it like that--the news was couched in context and he emphasized the fact that Isolde had given her life for her son's. But everyone in the room knew who had made that decision. On whose shoulders lay the blame.

It was a good thing my strength was magically enhanced.

We moved from the Arl's sickbed to the main hall of the castle, the warmth of the roaring fire in direct counterpoint to the chill that had settled in my bones. Eamon listened to his brother tell the tale of everything that had transpired over the months since Ostagar. When Teagan finished, Eamon met my eyes with a weary gaze. "Thank you, Warden," the Arl said, his deep voice somber. "Thank you for saving what you could."

It wasn't enough. It had been the only true option, but it wasn't even close to being enough.

I turned as Jowan was led into the room on Eamon's orders. His entire countenance sobbed defeat, and my heart broke. Before I realized what I was doing, I strode over to him and wrapped him in my arms.

"You will always be the brother I never had," I whispered.

His breath hitched. His hands were bound behind his back, so he couldn't return my embrace, but he leaned his head on my shoulder.

I stepped back, surreptitiously wiped my eyes, and rejoined Alistair in front of Eamon. The Arl looked at me quizzically. "Do you have something to say on Jowan's behalf, Warden?"

"Yes, I do. He is a good man who made incredibly stupid choices, my lord," I said, meeting Eamon's narrowed gaze unflinchingly. "He is a maleficar, this is true, but he was merely a tool of Teyrn Loghain and his actions against Ferelden. I--" I glanced at Alistair. Oh, this was not going to be a popular request. "I would like him released."

"A blood mage?" the templar sputtered. "Who killed Lady Isolde?"

"A friend," I corrected him, "who was the reason we were able to save the Arl's son."

"Enough." Eamon inhaled deeply, then shook his head. "I can't release him, Warden. Even if I agreed with you that he was manipulated by the regent, he is still a blood mage. An apostate."

"Then give him to the Circle." I couldn't help the pleading note that entered my voice. I hated the thought of Jowan going to Aeonar, the mages' prison, but the alternative was death. If Eamon called for his execution--

I didn't know what I would do.

"Yes," the Arl said after a moment. "That is a fair solution. Jowan, I hereby order that you be returned to Ferelden's Circle of Magi, who will determine your punishment. May the Maker have mercy on you."

"Thank you, my lord," Jowan said, dipping his chin. When he turned his gaze to me, his eyes glistened. "Goodbye, Kiann. Maker watch over you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched as Jowan was led away.

"Now we must speak of Loghain." Eamon's brows drew low over his eyes. "I can scarcely believe what he's done. Long I have known him, and Loghain Mac Tir never desired power."

"He has changed, brother," Teagan said.

"Indeed. But we cannot afford to meet him on the battlefield."

"Wait." I shook my head. "Are you saying we should give up?"

Eamon chuckled, a sound that held no mirth. "Hardly. Loghain will pay for what he's done. But we must save the armies you're gathering to fight against the darkspawn, not each other. If we wage a campaign against Loghain, Ferelden will not have the forces to defeat the Blight. _That_ must be our priority." The Arl turned to face the fire behind him. "I will call for a Landsmeet, for all the nobles to gather in Denerim, to challenge Loghain's place as regent. But we must pair it with a challenge Loghain can't ignore. We need someone with a stronger claim to the throne than his daughter, Queen Anora."

Teagan stilled. "Brother, are you suggesting...Alistair?"

"I wish there was another option, but the worst has come to pass."

A smile tugged at my lips as my eyes swung from Eamon to Teagan. "What are you talking about?"

Teagan's gaze whipped to the templar's. "She doesn't know?"

This was a masterpiece of work. Truly. I don't know when he'd arranged it, but it was a prank of epic proportions. Something I would have loved to set up with Jowan. My smile grew as I turned to my friend--and fell, slowly, as I saw no humor in his face.

"I, uh," he said, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I tried to tell you when we approached Redcliffe, but, um..."

"You're joking." Why was my heart twisting so?

"Believe me, I wish it was a joke. All it's ever done has brought me trouble."

I fell back a step from him, my arms wrapping around my midsection. "You're a sodding _prince_? And you didn't tell me?"

"Alistair is King Maric's illegitimate son," Eamon confirmed. "He has a blood right claim to the throne, something no one else in the country has."

A prince. Maker's breath. A templar and a _prince_. Oh, this was quite the joke. Here, Kiann: here is a man you find attractive, who makes you laugh, who makes your insides melt totally inappropriately...but he's been trained as a guard that you've learned to fear and hate; oh, and just in case you thought you might get past that, he's a prince, so far above your station that to think you might have a future with him--

I shook my head. Not now. Maker, not now. Get through this meeting. Get back to camp. That's all I had to do right now.

"So you want to put him forth as the heir." My voice sounded dead to my ears. I wondered if Alistair heard the difference; I dared not look at him, for fear I would start shouting at him or crying. Or, Andraste help me, both.

"Exactly."

"What about me?" Alistair demanded. "Doesn't anyone care what I want?"

"Without you, Loghain wins," Eamon said. "I would have to support him for the good of Ferelden. Is that what you want?"

"I...but, I..." The templar frowned. "No, my lord."

"Then I will call the Landsmeet. Continue gathering your allies, Warden," Eamon said. "We will need all of the strength you can muster."

###

Alistair managed to hold his tongue until we returned to camp, but once we'd reached the sanctuary of the ring of tents, there was no denying him. He tossed down his sword and shield, showing an uncharacteristic disregard for their care. His gauntlets clattered atop the weaponry and he thrust one hand through his hair.

"How could you do that?" he fumed. "You killed Lady Isolde!"

I hugged my arms to my chest and met his gaze squarely. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the rest of our companions move away, out of the line of verbal fire. "Would you have preferred I murder a little boy?"

"No, but there had to have been _something_ we could have done that didn't involve blood magic. By the Maker, Kiann. Blood magic."

"What, Alistair? What could we have done?" I gestured with one hand. "Please. I want to know."

"I…I…" He paced a couple of steps away. "I don't know. Something. Anything but _that_."

"I'm sorry my decision doesn't sit well with _your Highness_," I spat. My fingers gripped my upper arms tight enough to leave bruises.

Alistair turned to regard me, his expression icy. "Don't. Kiann, just…don't."

"Oh, no. You don't get to shout at me, question one of the hardest decisions I have _ever_ made, and expect that I'm not going to shout right back." Hot tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "How could you not tell me? I thought we were friends!"

"We were…we are." He blew out a frustrated breath. "I wanted to tell you. But then, after Ostagar…I don't know. How do you just tell someone _that_?"

"'Oh, by the way, now that Cailan's dead, I'm heir to the throne'?"

"Funny. Like you would have believed me. Maker." He sank to one of the logs arranged around the fire and stared at the golden flames. They caressed the planes of his face like a lover's hands. Like I'd wanted to do, with my hands.

What a fool I was.

"I should have told you," he said, tossing a stray twig into the fire. "I'm sorry. It's just that…everyone who's ever found out has treated me differently. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I just--I wanted you to like me for me." He looked up, his eyes shadowed.

"I did like you," I whispered. "Now…now I don't even know who you are. I'm quite the idiot, aren't I?" My heart was twisting again, like it had when Eamon had first announced his plan. The King. Maker, I was looking at the future King. "Cailan was protecting you, sending you to the Tower with me. I see the resemblance now; did they keep the two of you apart so no one else saw it? It's quite striking, really."

"Kiann--"

"If someone had told me I'd be babysitting the sodding heir, I would have gotten nicer robes." Nonsense was pouring out of my mouth, but I couldn't stop it. It was better than crying, better than crumbling in front of him. "I certainly wouldn't have gotten myself all scarred up. It doesn't look good for the prince to have an ugly elf on his arm, does it?"

Alistair pushed up from the log and took a step toward me. I fell back, away from his reaching arm. "Don't you dare touch me."

"Please, Kiann--"

I shook my head. "Was this a game to you?"

"What? No. _No._ How can you think that?"

"Oh, come on, Alistair. You can't be that naïve. Dallying with an elven mage might be barely acceptable as a Grey Warden. It isn't even close to being all right for a King."

"I'm not the King!" The templar's fists clenched at his sides. "I don't want to be the King. I've never wanted that."

"But you knew." My voice was low, intense with the effort not to break down. "When Cailan died, you knew the possibility was there. And you--you didn't warn me. And I--"

My heart, no longer content with twisting, cracked.

"Maker, Kiann, I--"

"Stay away from me!" I thrust my hands out at him, and my magic responded to my emotions and the turmoil swirling within me. An arcane bolt flew from my hands and struck him in the chest. Unprepared for the attack, he toppled backwards. Into the fire.

Leliana screamed. Sten and Zevran rushed forward and yanked the templar away from the flames. Wynne fell to her knees at his side, but Alistair was already sitting up, patting his smoldering hair.

Hand covering my mouth in horror at what I'd done, I broke away from the fire's radiance and ran into the surrounding darkness.


	7. Chrysalis

**Chrysalis**

I'd barely passed beyond the reach of the fire's light before I heard him crashing through the brush after me. Part of me was relieved that he was well enough to chase me; the rest of me just wanted to get away.

"Maker's breath, Kiann," he growled. "Will you stop?"

My hand was jerked backwards and I lurched to a halt. I tried to pull away, but he shifted his grip, intertwining his fingers with mine. His bare skin felt odd; any of the handful of times we'd touched, metal had separated us. Warmth radiated from his hand, up my arm, into my head.

He stepped closer. My heart pounded as I angled my head to watch him, to keep my eyes on his. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely audible. His other hand came up to touch my face, my scars, and I jerked my head to the side. He laid his palm there anyway and tugged my eyes back to his.

He leaned down, and those wonderful, quick-to-smile lips covered my own. His touch was firm, sure--so odd from the usually hesitant man I knew. The heat from his body surrounded me, comforting, enticing. I sighed against him, my mouth opening...and suddenly the kiss wasn't sweet anymore, it was hot and burning and needy. He pulled me tightly against him, one arm banded across my back like an iron bar. He held me, trapped, like he was afraid I would run--

_I __can't move, injured as I am, but he pins me with his weight anyway. Rocks and branches dig into my back, but I can do nothing but lay there, tears pouring from my eyes. One hand on either bicep, one knee crushing my left leg as the other wedges my thighs apart--_

I wrenched myself out of Alistair's arms and staggered backwards. Images--memories, dear Maker, they were memories--rushed through my mind. Oh, Andraste. Have mercy.

The templar frowned. "What is it? Was that too much? Too soon? Maker, I'm sorry, I'm all hands--" He reached out to me.

_One hand __is over my mouth, the other one is...there...rough and painful. And he's laughing. My eyes are swollen shut so I can't see his face, but he's laughing as he replaces his fingers with--_

"Don't touch me!" The shriek ripped out of me like an abomination's wail. I doubled over, gagging and sobbing and whimpering all at once.

"Kiann, please." The templar looked so concerned, almost sick with it. "What is it? Are you ill? Let me help--" His hand alighted on my arm.

I screamed. And kept screaming. It rang in my ears, in my head, in my memories, in my heart.

Hands on my arms. Alistair's voice begging me to explain. Then his hands, gone; his presence, shoved away. Firm, feminine fingers on my chin, yanking my gaze to meet azure eyes.

"Warden--Kiann," Leliana said, her voice ringing with authority. "Focus on me. Can you see me?"

My lungs pumped like a bellows. Too fast, but they wouldn't slow down. I nodded.

"Concentrate on your breathing," Leliana instructed. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this." She demonstrated. I copied.

"She knows how to breathe!" Alistair flared. "We need to find out what's wrong."

I winced at the anger and frustration in his voice. I knew he wouldn't hurt me--not like that, not like--

Screams bubbled again, trembling in my chest, and I scrambled backwards, my hands and feet kicking up dead leaves and dirt. I had to get away, had to escape--

Leliana followed me, but she didn't touch me, just matched my movements like one would shadow a dangerous animal. "Kiann," she said softly, "no one here will hurt you. You know this."

My eyes raced around the clearing and my stunned brain realized that all of my companions stood around me in a loose circle. But Leliana was still talking, her voice low and soothing, and I had to listen.

"You're safe here, with us," she said. She crept forward a step, then another, and I forced myself not to move. "But you need to calm down. It would be a shame to set fire to this lovely forest, yes?"

She reached me and cupped one shoulder in her palm. Something in me crumbled, and I fell forward as a torrent of sobs rushed out of me. But she caught me and held me, stroking my hair and humming a soft tune I didn't know.

A rustle of leaves. A footstep. "Alistair," Leliana murmured, "just go."

"But I--"

"This has nothing to do with you," she said. "Please. Go."

More whispers of dead foliage, slow and reluctant. I felt the rest of my companions leave, but still I clung to Leliana like an anchor. My tears subsided, but I did not feel cleansed. I felt...shattered. Destroyed. All of the confidence I'd unearthed within myself, the sense of purpose...gone.

How could I not have remembered? How could I not have _known_? Those bastards had stolen my innocence, and I hadn't even realized.

Stupid, idiot of a girl. I should have fought back, with everything in me, with every last ounce of ability. I should have kicked, bit, spit, whatever it took. Not lay there like I was already dead.

"Do you want to talk?" Leliana pulled back to look me in the eyes again.

I wrenched my gaze away. "No." I wanted to kill something. Lots of somethings, preferably. Extra points if they were men who frequented The Spoiled Princess. I froze at the realization I wanted to commit murder. Then anger spurted through me. Why wouldn't I? I wasn't the weak girl who'd left the tower, not any longer. I wasn't even the same girl who'd let herself be-- I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to think it.

This is what a Grey Warden was supposed to be, was it not? Wardens did what they must. They were not heroes. And I certainly fit those two characteristics now, didn't I? Heroes didn't long for murder; heroes didn't kill innocent women, even if they volunteered.

"I'm fine, Leliana." My voice was strong, horribly strong. I pushed the bard away, and stood. "Go back to camp."

The red-haired woman glanced over her shoulder at the warm light of the flames crackling through the trees, then looked back to me. "Kiann, you shouldn't--"

"Go back to camp." Command laced my tone, the first time I'd purposely inserted it into my voice.

Leliana hesitated. "You're sure?"

"It's out of my system." I crossed my arms. "Go."

Uncertainty dwelled in her deep blue eyes, but she knew me as her leader, and she obeyed. With Leliana gone, my shoulders sagged, but I refused to break again. I would not.

I don't know how long I stood there, my thoughts scattered like the stray leaves tossed about by the breeze. I didn't know who I was. I knew who I wasn't--I wasn't Kiann any longer, at least not the Kiann who'd roamed the halls of the Circle, laughing with Jowan, driving teachers to distraction, and getting into as much trouble as I could.

That Kiann, I knew now, had died in the forest by Lake Calenhad.

Before I truly realized what I was doing, my belt knife was in my hands and my long, wavy auburn locks began to fall around me. I dropped the strands, watching them flutter to the ground like some kind of odd spiderweb. With every cut, I became more sure of my actions.

I sheathed my knife after the last tress fell. My fingers brushed over my choppy, rough hair, and I enjoyed the oddness of it. My thumb grazed the scars on the right side of my face and I paused. Hair could--and would--grow back. I wanted...no, I _needed_ a permanent reminder that I was not the Kiann-that-was.

Zevran. He had ink; I'd seen it as we packed for travel. He would help me, because I'd seen the brokenness in him before I'd experienced it myself. He would understand the need to be different. He would understand that Kiann was dead.

Long live whoever I was.


	8. Challenge

**Challenge**

I woke before anyone else the next morning and scampered to Bodhan's cart. The dwarven merchant earned his place in my camp by carrying some of our heavier goods, like spare armor and weapons, in addition to offering us supplies for a discounted price. He received all the protection a well-armed crew could muster, and we enjoyed the convenience of our own personal store, an arrangement that benefited everyone. I rummaged through the crates until I found what I sought: plate armor, dragonbone, that we'd retrieved from an ancient, haunted Grey Warden base. The breastplate wasn't shiny like most of the armors we'd collected over our travels; it gleamed dully in the early morning light, like the black matte finish ingested the sunlight. The golden griffon on the front beckoned me, reminding me of who I wasn't.

I gathered up the pieces and carried them back to the ring of tents surrounding the languid fire. Leliana had risen and was stoking the flames in preparation for breakfast. She turned as I approached and her eyes lingered on me, taking in my new appearance, but she said nothing. Of all my companions, I knew she and Zevran would not judge me.

The night before, when Zev had done my ink, the assassin had remained uncharacteristically quiet. The importance of my request had not been lost on him, as I'd suspected it wouldn't. He hadn't protested my decision. He hadn't tried to talk me out of it. He had given the situation the weight it deserved, because he'd simply understood.

Alistair...I wasn't so sure of. But I was not going to shy away from him. He would either accept me as I was now, or he wouldn't. The outcome did not matter to me.

I let my armload of armor clatter to the ground outside of his tent. It had the expected result of provoking grumbles and protests from his bedroll, but in moments his head poked through the flap.

"Who in the--" He blinked up at me, sleep still clouding his eyes, and frowned. "Kiann?"

My shoulders tensed at that name. "Surana," I corrected him.

"Uh...all right. You cut your hair." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "And...tattooed your face? Why by Andraste's holy pyre--"

"I need help putting on the armor," I said.

Alistair looked down at the pile of ebony and burnished gold metal. He hadn't wanted it, insisting that he wasn't worthy of wearing the Warden Commander suit of plate. _That's Duncan's role, not mine._ "It won't be too heavy for you?"

"No."

He stared at me for a moment, then pushed to his feet, heedless of his lack of shirt. "Kiann, please. We're--we're friends, right? I want to help. I want to fix whatever it is that's hurting you." He stepped around the pile of armor, toward me, and I retreated to maintain the space between us. His face fell. "Kiann."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't call you by your name?" He thrust a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "I just--I don't understand what's happened. Were you remembering the attack last night? Is that it? Did I hurt you, or say something, or--or do something, that made you remember being beaten?"

I laughed. It burst out of me without warning, without warmth. Suddenly I felt so much older than the templar. Not wiser. Just ancient. "You're such a boy."

His eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know you were sheltered, Alistair, but please."

He crossed his arms. "Don't talk to me like I'm stupid. They don't make stupid templars, you know."

"Having lived with templars my entire life and hoodwinked more than my share, I beg to differ." I glared at him. He glared right back. "Fine. I'll ask Sten." I turned to leave.

He grabbed my wrist. "Kiann--"

The knowledge of how to free myself flowed into my mind. Before I could make the conscious choice to do so, I had knocked Alistair on his ass. He swore as he fell onto the pile of armor.

"No one touches me," I growled. "No one. Not ever again. I'm not the stupid, weak girl who--who--" I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not her. She's dead. They killed her, in the woods by Lake Calenhad. You will call me Warden, or you will call me Surana, but you will _not_ touch me."

"They killed you? But I don't understand. That was nearly a month ago, so why..." Realization dawned. I could see it cascade over his face. "You remembered something, didn't you? When we--when we kissed, and I was holding you..." His eyes widened. "Oh, sweet Maker. Kiann, they didn't--tell me they _didn't_."

The look of horror on his face reached to the core of me, threatening to make me feel, so I turned away. "I'll be back for the armor."

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"Away." I didn't look back. He let me go.

I walked, and then I ran, and the pounding of my feet into the hard earth helped me rediscover my equilibrium. My world diminished to the path I followed and my next few steps, and my mind cleared. I returned to the camp within the hour to find a bowl of porridge waiting for me, balanced on one of the rocks surrounding the crackling fire. The warm mush had been sweetened and spiced just to my liking, and I wondered who had taken the time to add the extra sugar and cinnamon.

The spoon paused on its way to my mouth as Alistair sat beside me. He gave me space--at least an arm's-length--and a knot inside of me loosened, just a bit. I continued eating, but I no longer really tasted it.

"I'm not going to call you Warden," he said after a long moment. His eyes stayed on the fire. "That's just stupid. I'm a Warden too, after all, and people might think I'm talking to myself. So Surana it is. But if I slip up, don't run me through."

I swallowed the oatmeal past a lump in my throat. "Deal."

"And...this needs to be said." He took a deep breath. "Whatever decisions you've made--good or bad, ones I've agreed with and not--I respect you for making them. You are my friend, my comrade-in-arms, and I have your back. Regardless of what comes, I will be there for you."

My throat clenched, and I cleared it. "Thank you, Alistair."

"Right." He slapped his hands against his knees and rose. "Now that the mushy bits are over, let's move on to armor training, shall we? This morning: the care and feeding of dragonbone armor. Ready?"

For the first time in what felt like forever, a smile tickled my lips. Just a tiny one, just barely enough to lift one corner, but that was all right. "Ready," I assured him, and rose to follow.

###

The armor felt...odd. Not that it was too heavy, it was just bulky. It jutted out from my body, making me look bigger, making me feel bigger, and moving in it required practice. Alistair showed a great deal of patience in teaching me how to clean it, how to secure it in place, and how to swing my sword while wearing it. After the first few movements, something clicked. Ancient memories flowed into my muscles, and once again I felt the rightness of my abilities.

The templar raised a brow as I swept the sword in an artistic form, much less awkwardly than I had been moving. "Ancient elven magic to the rescue, I see." He chuckled. "Let me tell you, that would have been a very handy trick when I was learning all this stuff the hard way."

I finished the form and snapped the sword to my back. "Does this mean you're going to stop yelling at me when I join the battle?"

"Maybe. Don't hold your breath. And if you get hurt, all bets are off."

"So. We are to sit around the camp for yet another day."

I turned at the rough, deep voice to see Sten glowering at me. His white braids stood out in stark contrast to his dark, rough skin and piercing violet eyes. Of all of my companions, the Qunari was the one I understood the least. His philosophy--that all people were born to be one thing, and one thing only, unchanging--was something I couldn't comprehend, particularly now. He had no tolerance for women, and even less for mages. He had bound himself to the task of defeating the Blight at my side, a vow his odd sense of honor would not allow him to abandon even though he'd made no effort to hide his contempt for me.

"I think we deserved a break, after Redcliffe," I countered.

"I see." The Qunari's eyes were as hard as gemstones. "And this delay has nothing to do with your weakness as a woman?"

Alistair stepped forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Hey, now, just wait a minute--"

I held up a hand and the templar subsided, grumbling.

"No," I said, my voice even. "This has nothing to do with me being a woman."

"I do not believe you." The Qunari stepped toward me and crossed his arms. Even wearing the bulky plate armor, the difference in our sizes was remarkable. He stood well over six feet tall, and was built for war--broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, well-muscled. I barely reached the middle of his chest. "Women are not warriors, and this is why. They are too emotional. They cannot lead objectively."

I arched a brow. "And you could do better?"

"Yes."

"I don't think so." I turned and stepped away, only to have my progress halted by Sten's massive two-handed sword. My eyes whipped to his.

"If you will not lead us to the archdemon," he growled, "I will."

Slowly, I unlatched Spellweaver from my back. "A challenge, then, is it?"

The Qunari inclined his head. "I will try not to damage you permanently."

"Too late," I murmured, then darted away from him.

I fell to the opposite side of our impromptu dueling ring and mirrored Sten's movements as he paced to the right, watching me, searching for an initial opening. My steps were sure. No fear rumbled through my mind. No uncertainty. My world narrowed down to just this: the ring, the challenge, my opponent. Everything else was inconsequential.

The Qunari leapt forward, his speed surprising for one so large. At the last moment, he spun and swept his enormous sword in an arc toward my midsection. I ducked and rushed forward, underneath his swing, the words of a spell falling from my lips. A bolt of lightning caught Sten in the back and he rumbled in his chest, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face me again.

"Magic. _Vashedan._"

My lips twitched and I shrugged, the joints of my armor rasping. With a grunt, he charged again. This time, instead of going for a swing with his blade, he thrust the pommel at me. It caught me on the chin and my vision faded. When it cleared again, I was on my back, and Sten's sword was arcing down toward me. Instinct brought Spellweaver to bear, blocking his strike. The contact reverberated down my arm, into my shoulder, and my magic strained to counter his amazing strength. I cried out and kicked, pushing him back enough that I could roll away and regain my feet.

He gave me no time to recover. He struck out with his blade again. The length caught me across the arm. I stumbled away from the blow, the clang of metal on dragonbone ringing in my ears. He pressed his advantage, forcing me into a defensive stance. Ancient knowledge rumbled through my mind. I had to switch tactics. I could not hope to outlast him by simply defending myself; Qunari were renowned for their incredible stamina. Maker's breath, when I'd met Sten he'd been caged for more than twenty days, and yet was still able to fight moments later. No, I needed a better strategy.

I didn't want to kill him. I dashed out of his reach and threw a spell at him, then another, staying away from the ones with the highest risk of death. I needed to slow him down and create opportunities for my sword. Winter's Grasp didn't freeze him--I'd known it wouldn't, but it did encase his limbs in ice and halt his attack for a handful of seconds. I danced in close to him and slashed Spellweaver across his arms and chest. Three strikes, my hands moving faster than I'd thought myself capable, and then I was jolting out of his reach again.

Sten eyed the trickle of blood that welled between the joints of his armor. "Interesting," he said.

I didn't wait for more banter. I cast Lightning. He staggered as the electricity coursed through him. I moved in closer, just beyond his reach, and cast Shock. A web of lightning bolts shot from my hands, enveloping the Qunari in a maelstrom. He jerked under the assault, his lips stretched in a grimace. The bolts sizzled into nothing and he fell to one knee, breathing heavily.

With the point of Spellweaver, I nudged his chin up so his eyes met mine. "Do you yield?"

I saw something in his gaze I hadn't seen before: a flicker of respect. "I yield. I will follow."

"Good. It would be a waste for me to have to kill you." I stepped back and returned Spellweaver to its latch.

"Agreed." The Qunari lumbered to his feet and without another word, returned to his tent near the fire.

The rest of my companions began moving away as well, and I belatedly realized that Sten and I had acquired an audience during our duel. Leliana shot me a quick smile as she returned to the fire. Zevran inclined his head, one brow lifted in appreciation. Wynne's face had its trademark gentle smile, but was otherwise impassive. Only Morrigan had not joined the group to watch the spectacle.

Alistair fell into step beside me as I made my way back to the circle of tents. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "I don't think you'll have to worry about me yelling at you anymore."

My lips quirked, and I nodded. "I'm glad to hear it."


	9. Understanding

**Understanding**

I lay in bed in the quarters Prince--no, _King_--Bhelen had assigned to me in the royal palace, and tried not to think about how many tons of rock lay between me and the star-filled sky. Maker--our return to the surface couldn't come fast enough. I hadn't thought it possible, but the Fade had been replaced as the most hated environ I knew.

The Deep Roads trumped it easily. And Orzammar was next on the list.

I rolled onto my side and clutched the blanket to my chest. I wished I'd been able to leave the dwarves to their petty squabbling. No one had seemed to grasp the importance of the news I'd brought; the deshyrs were far too busy vying for the Assembly's attention and jockeying for position amongst themselves. After learning that I would have to get involved in the cesspool of dwarven politics in order to receive the aid I required against the Blight, I'd wanted to tell them all to sod off. It had been Alistair who'd reminded me that the dwarven knowledge of the darkspawn was second only to the Grey Wardens'. They'd been fighting the creatures, non-stop, for centuries. We needed that expertise.

So I chose sides and we started doing what needed to be done to win. Including travelling into the gloomy, foreboding tunnels in which the darkspawn nested, and bred, and waited to strike.

I squeezed my eyes shut, as if the tightness of my lids could forces the images away. But I feared those pictures, forever lodged in my mind, were the gift Orzammar and the dwarves had bestowed upon me. How thoughtful.

My eyes snapped open at the soft tap on my door, and I pushed myself to a sitting position. I anchored the blanket in place with my elbows and said, "Come in." My voice showed no trace of the turmoil bubbling in my chest.

The door opened, and Alistair's head appeared. "Oh, you're in bed. I, uh..." He blushed and turned to leave.

"It's all right," I said. Not that I wouldn't have preferred to be in my armor and sitting in a chair to talk to him, but if he'd sought me out, something must be on his mind. Probably the same things that were on my mind.

He hesitated, half-in, half-out of my room. "You're sure?"

"Alistair," I growled.

"Fine." He stepped through the doorway and pressed the door closed behind him. It latched with a soft click and I pushed down the slight jolt of panic that spurted through me. Alistair would never hurt me. But the stupid thing about irrational fears was that they never listened to reason.

"What's on your mind?" My voice was sharper than I'd intended and I took a breath to calm myself.

"I heard a pair of the guards talking. Harrowmont was executed about an hour ago." He crossed his arms over his chest, rumpling the plain linen shirt he wore. "I'm not questioning your decision, but I just can't understand it. We'd been working with Harrowmont all along. Why did you betray him?"

I sighed. "I didn't betray him." My breath whooshed out of my lungs. "Okay, maybe I did, but that wasn't my intention."

"Then why...?"

I looked down at the blanket covering me, wondering if I could put my thoughts into words. "Branka sacrificed her entire house to reach the Anvil of the Void."

"Yes, because, _clearly_, she was the sanest person out there."

I glared at him. "I wasn't done."

His lips pressed into a thin line and he straddled the plain wooden chair stationed across from my bed. "Sorry. I'm just--" He shook his head. "Sorry. Go on."

"Yes, Branka was insane, but her reasoning for doing what she did is sound, Alistair. The dwarves are losing the battle against the darkspawn. They don't have the numbers to continue fighting them. Eventually, Orzammar will be overrun." I rolled my shoulders, feeling the tension in every muscle. "Don't tell me you can't feel how the taint is encroaching on the city."

"I feel it," he said softly.

"The dwarves have maintained the status quo here for centuries, and look where it's gotten them. The Anvil was not the answer--Maker, I couldn't imagine condemning more souls to that awful existence--but _something_ needs to be done. And I realized, after the Deep Trenches, that Harrowmont was only more of the same. We can't lose Orzammar to the darkspawn. Dwarven society needs to change to survive, and I think Bhelen will do that." I grimaced. "I hope he will. Otherwise I just contributed to yet another innocent person's death for no reason."

Alistair was quiet for a long moment. "I see your point. It still doesn't sit well," he said, his voice low, "but I understand where you're coming from. Thank you for explaining it."

"What would you have done?" The question burst out of me, unbidden.

The templar blinked. "I...don't know." He smiled sheepishly. "But that's why you're in charge, right?"

"That's a ridiculous attitude," I snarled. "You're going to be the sodding _King_. You'll need to think about things like this."

"I'm not going to be the King."

"Alistair--"

"I don't want to talk about it." He stood up and the chair scraped across the stone floor.

"Running away from it isn't going to make it less likely to happen."

He arched a brow. "I'll have you know that running away is always a valid option."

"Don't be an idiot."

"Look, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, because I know you've got to be experiencing this same awful creeping feeling from the taint that I am," he said, his voice gravelly. "Like your stomach is trying to crawl out of your mouth. Disgusting. But I've had just about enough of the insults from you."

I pushed to my feet, my arms tight across my chest. "Well, stop acting like a child and I'll stop insulting you."

"And they continue." He sighed dramatically, but I saw the spark of anger in his eyes. "You know, if I want this kind of treatment, I could just go talk to Morrigan."

"Everything's a joke." I brushed a hand over my hair automatically, forgetting for a moment that the russet lengths were no more. "What about the broodmother? Was that a joke? Did you think it would be funny, not telling me about that?"

He gave his head a little shake. "What in the Maker's name are you going on about?"

I waved a hand. "The broodmother. Big, nasty, blob of a darkspawn? Smelled bad? With eight sodding breasts?" My fingers dug into my upper arms. "How could you not warn me about that?"

"Kind of tough for me to warn you when I didn't know."

"And what were you doing, getting so close to the edge of that chasm in the Dead Trenches?" I demanded. "The ledge could have given way and--"

"Why are you yelling at me?"

"I don't know!" I hugged my arms to my chest even tighter.

He sighed, then tilted his head to one side and the other, stretching it. "Come here."

I frowned at the sudden change in his voice, from playfulness masking anger to gentleness. Suspicion darted through me. "Why?"

"I'm going to break your no-touching rule."

"Alistair--"

"Maker's mercy, Kiann, just come here."

I stared at him for a moment, and he stared back, and I narrowed my eyes. But my feet carried me over to him, despite my reservations. He arranged the chair and gestured at it. "Sit."

I sat. "If this is another joke..."

"No, no more joking," he said, his voice tired. "I just thought--"

Instead of finishing his sentence, his hands rested on my shoulders. I tensed, expecting the memories to rush in, and they didn't disappoint. But then his fingers moved, digging into my muscles, forcing the tension away, and the images faded. Just a bit. Enough that I could focus on how good the massage felt, and his voice, and try to push the bad thoughts aside.

"Did I ever tell you about the cat that adopted me?"

I snorted. "A cat. Adopted you."

"It was a very large cat, and I was a very small boy," he said. "You know I slept in the stables at Redcliffe, right? Well, there was this old barn cat that was probably pushing twenty. She obviously did all right for herself with birds and whatnot, because she was massive. Just huge. I kid you not, she was nearly the size of Sam."

I giggled at the thought of a tabby the size of my mabari, then groaned as Alistair's fingers found a particularly stubborn knot.

"Oh, you giggle now, but it wasn't so funny whenever this giant creature hissed at me."

"She hissed at you? But I bet--" I bit my lip.

"You bet...?" he prompted.

I blew out a breath. "You were adorable as a child. Admit it."

"Oh, I won't deny it. Being adorable got me extra sweets from Cook." He chuckled. "This one summer, the nights were stubbornly cold. It was almost like true summer never arrived, and we were stuck in spring for the duration. It was nice enough during the day, but haylofts aren't the best at holding the heat.

"One night, I was laying there shivering, and the cat took pity on me. She laid on top of me, like a giant, very heavy, fur blanket."

A laugh snorted out of me. "You're kidding."

"I am not," he insisted. "Every night she'd do that, though I did finally manage to convince her not to actually drape herself over me. It was hard to breathe."

His fingers moved to the ridge of my spine, and my eyelids drooped. "So she kept you warm?"

"And fed me." I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. "Or tried to, anyway. I think she was rather insulted when I screamed at the dead birds she brought me."

"Uh huh." My chin dropped to my chest as he worked the muscles in my neck. "So you lied to me again."

His fingers stilled. "I lied...? What?"

"You said you were raised by dogs."

"Oh." He chuckled, his hands moving back to my shoulders. "Well, except for that one summer."

"And what happened to the cat?"

"I don't know. That was the summer I was sent to the Chantry." He drew his thumbs along my nightgown-covered skin once last time, then his hands left me. Suddenly, I felt very alone. Which was very stupid. "There. Feel any better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Though the tension wasn't gone completely, he had eased a great deal of it. I turned in the chair to look at him. "Do you want me to return the favor? I don't have any funny stories about cats to share, though."

I thought for a moment that he was going to decline; his mouth opened, and uncertainty flickered across his features. But then he shrugged and said, "Sure."

We traded places. I stared down at his tanned neck and realized I was in trouble. Heat trembled through me, heat that was unwelcome and unneeded. Heat I shouldn't even be able to feel, not after--

I pressed my fingers to his shoulders, his linen shirt bunching under my ministrations.

"Just a hint," he said. "You're not trying to insert your fingers _through_ my muscles. You just want to rub them."

"Right." I let up a little. "Sorry."

It took a few minutes, but I fell into the rhythm of the massage, kneading his muscles just right. I assumed it was just right, anyway, by the sounds emerging from low in his throat. Little grunts and moans.

Would he make the same noises while making love?

"All right, massage done!" I announced, pulling away.

He was too quick for me, and caught my hand before I could retreat any further. "Thank you, Kiann. I appreciate it."

I stared at his big, strong hand covering my tiny one, and the way his thumb absently drifted over my skin was not the gesture of a friend. But I didn't withdraw. The bad memories were kept at bay with the simple thought that this was Alistair. I trusted him, with my life.

"Surana," I protested weakly.

He rose and brushed his fingers lightly over the tattoo on my cheek. "Kiann," he said. "Good night."

He left, a small smile curving his lips, and I took refuge once again in the safety of my borrowed bed. I stared at the ceiling, awake, sleep eluding me for very different reasons than before. Reasons that had nothing to do with the darkspawn and dwarves, and everything to do with my fellow Warden.


	10. Reverse

**Reverse**

There was little to do on the journey back to the lowlands but talk. I had somehow managed to acquire a new addition to my motley crew in Orzammar, a robust warrior by the name of Oghren. His lewd comments and vulgarities made Morrigan roll her eyes and Wynne grimace, but I found myself genuinely liking him. Oghren was what he was, and he made no apologies for it. We walked together a lot, him doing most of the talking, and me listening and smiling when a particularly dirty joke made Alistair, who always hovered nearby, blush. If the dwarf was surprised I didn't laugh, he said nothing; he carried his own darkness in the depths of his eyes, and something told me he understood more than he let on.

I was surprised and yet not when Oghren cornered me after dinner one night on our way back to Redcliffe, hesitantly confirmed our friendship, and confessed that he wanted to rekindle an old flame, now that he was on the surface. A tiny smile curved my lips as his gravelly voice described this woman, Felsi, that he'd managed to love and lose. Typical Oghren.

"Sure, why not. We can look her up." I leaned against the log at my back, extending my legs. "Do you know where she might be?"

"Last I heard, she was working in a tavern. Near Lake Cleanbad, I think it was."

My throat closed. I stared at the fire for a long moment, as if the flames could melt the ice that had started forming in the pit of me. "Lake Calenhad, you mean?"

"Ki--Surana." Alistair's voice was filled with concern. He'd heard, of course he'd heard; he was always close at hand now, it seemed.

"I'm fine." I made sure my voice sounded like it, too.

Oghren's eyes darted from the templar and back to me. "No, not Lake Calenhad. _Cleanbad_. I remember, because I thought, 'right; clean is bad'."

"I know the place." I pushed to my feet and strode into the darkness edging the camp.

Alistair's familiar footsteps pursued me. "We don't have to do this. _You_ don't have to do this," he said as he caught up to me.

"So I'm going to permanently avoid that area of Ferelden, now? Don't be an ass."

"I can go. I can take Oghren and whoever else. You don't need to go back."

"Alistair." I spun on my heel to face him, ready to lash out verbally, but his expression stopped me. Bone-deep worry dwelled in every line of his face. Something in my chest twisted and the words I'd been about to spit at him evaporated. "Thank you, but..."

"No. No 'but'." He crossed his arms over his chest, his plate armor rasping through the quiet night. "You're not going."

"Oh." My eyes narrowed as my appreciation faded. "I'm not?"

"No, you're not." His hand reached out, and I stepped back, the movement automatic. His fist clenched and fell back to his side. "I don't want you anywhere near those--those _pigs_. Not ever."

"It's not your choice."

"There is no _point_ in this."

"Kind of like there's really no point in looking up your sister."

His eyes narrowed and I knew I'd struck a blow. He'd revealed the existence of his half-sister as we'd trekked to Orzammar, how he wanted to meet her before the Blight overtook the country. I couldn't blame him; I'd seen his desire for a family first-hand when we'd been trapped in the Fade and I'd stumbled into his warm, fuzzy dream.

"That's low," he said quietly.

I shrugged to hide the twinge of guilt that rippled through me. "Maybe. But it's true, and you know it."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it," he grumbled.

"Since when have you ever liked my decisions, anyway?"

"Excellent point. I supposed I should be used to this by now." His eyes glittered, and I couldn't halt the chuckle that snuck past my lips. "Why, Kiann, I do believe you giggled."

"It was a cough."

"Right." He touched a hand to my arm to stop me as I turned back to the fire, just a quick moment of contact. "Promise me something."

My breath hitched at the seriousness of his voice. "What?"

"If it's too much--if seeing the tavern and, Maker forbid, the sons-of-whores who did that--" His lips thinned. "Promise me you'll walk away and let me handle it. I don't want you to be hurt. Not physically, and not...otherwise, either."

A sour taste rose in my throat, an unholy desire to visit pain on another living creature. I didn't welcome it, but nor did I shy away from it, either. "I can't promise that."

The templar sighed, then nodded. "Somehow, I didn't really think you would."

###

Seeing the tavern in the daylight diminished some of its affect on me. It wasn't the hulking, monstrous structure of my memories, darkened by the night and mist from the lake. It was just a building, with strips of paint peeling away here and there, a worn sign creaking as the breeze played with it, and familiar pub smells of roasting food and spilled ale emanating from it.

I felt Alistair's eyes on me as heavy as a hand on my shoulder. And, in some ways, as comforting. I wasn't alone. Whatever was to happen, I would have him and my other companions at my back.

All of them, it seemed, since no one had wanted to remain at camp for this. My entire company of friends stood arranged behind me, and I regarded them with an exasperated look. "We can't all go inside. We'll terrify everyone."

"I fail to see how 'twould be a bad thing, that," Morrigan sneered. "All evidence shows that these men could stand to learn some manners. I would be more than pleased to teach them." Magic crackled around her fingertips.

"Right. Morrigan, you're staying outside. Wynne, you too." I held up a hand to stall the elder mage's protest. "It's far too obvious that you two are mages, and I don't want to chance either of you getting hurt."

"And yourself, my dear?" Wynne asked, gently.

A crooked smile jerked my lips upward as I surveyed my black plate armor. "I don't think anyone will think I'm a mage. Nor will they recognize me, not now."

"Ah, but my dear Surana, that handsome outfit certainly identifies you as a Grey Warden, which will be nearly as bad here, no?" Zevran arched a brow, the lines tattooed on his face shifting subtle with the motion.

The assassin had a point, but I wasn't about to change out of my armor, and I would not remain behind. I glanced at The Spoiled Princess. I needed to do this. Helping Oghren reconnect with this woman…it was only an excuse. I needed to prove to myself that this place--these people--had no power over me. They'd killed Kiann, and I wasn't her.

"Oghren, Zevran, Alistair, you're with me. The rest of you…" I sighed, eying the well-armored sentinels stationed near the dock to the Tower. They were always there, ready to prevent the escape of any mages daring enough to brave the deep, frigid waters of the lake. "Try not to give the templars any reason to arrest you, all right?"

Sam whined at my side and I dropped a gauntleted hand to scratch his head. "No, boy," I said softly. "You stay out here."

The four of us walked into the tavern, and I was inappropriately reminded of a joke that Oghren had tried to tell me a few nights before. He'd been drunk--when wasn't he?--and had keeled over, passed out, before he'd said more than, "An elf walks into this bar, see…"

Even though it was barely past noon, the tavern had a healthy number of customers. One table in the back had three figures seated around it, and two more men sat hunched over the stools at the bar. A couple more were occupied with lone drinkers. Without the laughter and dancing and music, the atmosphere was not pleasant. These men had come to drink and forget, and we were interrupting that.

"There she is," Oghren said, his rough voice carrying an uncharacteristic note of hope. "Warden, you have to back me up."

"Back you up?" I snorted. "Oghren, she's not a genlock."

"Just follow my lead, will you?"

I rolled my eyes and followed the dwarf as he approached the woman, currently on her hands and knees and scrubbing a particularly nasty stain on the floor. I didn't want to know what it was.

Oghren approached her with what I could only describe as a leer stretched across his rotund face. "Are you sure you're not a baker? 'Cause you've got a sodding nice set of buns."

"Dear Maker," I groaned.

Felsi rose to her feet, her gaze puzzled. "Oghren? Is that you?"

"In the flesh, baby."

It went downhill from there. Or, at least, I thought it did. I said what I hoped were the appropriate things to help his cause, but the two dwarves traded insults and not-so-friendly banter. When Oghren finally let Felsi return to her work, he had a smile on his face.

"I still got it," he said as we moved toward the door.

"Wait." I frowned. "That was a success?"

"Weren't you listening, Warden? I practically had to pry her off me."

"Warden?"

I froze at the voice. That awful voice.

"Kiann," Alistair breathed. He shook his head. "Let's go."

My eyes narrowed. My teeth clenched. "I am _not_ Kiann."

"Aye, it is you." I turned, and watched the man approach, none too steady on his feet. My dance partner from that night. Maker, I didn't even know his name. "Cut your hair, did you. And painted your face, I see, like the good little whore you are."

Alistair stepped in front of me, his entire body vibrating with rage. "You will show some respect, ser."

"Respect?" The man laughed. "For _that_? Maker's breath. You must be joking." He swayed, just a little, as he looked over his shoulder to his friends, who had also risen from the table. "This is the bitch who set fire to the tavern, lads. Remember her?"

"Oh, aye," one of them slurred. His long hair hung in greasy strips framing a gaunt, stubbled face. Bile rose in my throat as memories rushed into me. _He grunts as he thrusts and laughs at my tears and the whimpers emanating from my throat._ "I remember. She looks like she's gained a bit of fight to her now, though." He chuckled darkly. "All the better."

"I am warning you, gentlemen," Alistair growled. "Come no closer. We don't want to start any trouble--"

"But we'll be happy to finish it," Zevran interjected. He shrugged as Alistair shot him a furious glare.

My dance partner drew closer. Alistair's hands flexed at his side, but he didn't reach for his sword. I didn't, either. Unlatching our weapons would signal the start of something, and, Maker, now that I was here and faced with this, I realized I didn't want it. I didn't want to kill anyone, I didn't want to hurt anyone. All I wanted was to run away, far away, where they could never, ever find me again.

I was Kiann. As much as I wanted to deny it, as much as I wanted it to be different, I was still the same scared little elven girl who'd been brutalized and left for dead, and I would never be anything _but_ her.

"Just because you have fancy armor and weaponry doesn't mean you know how to use it." My dance partner sneered as he reached the templar. "She couldn't even throw up a decent spell to defend herself, and you're in her company, so…what are the chances you're anything but a pretender? Like her? A Grey Warden, my arse."

"Alistair." His name whimpered out of me. A tear rolled down my cheek. Too much. He told me to walk away if it was too much, he made me promise him that, but I couldn't make my feet obey me. Andraste's mercy…I needed his help in this. I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't good enough…

His eyes flashed to mine, his mouth opened to speak--

A grunt of surprise emerged instead. A trickle of blood.

"Hmph," my dance partner scoffed. He released the knife jabbed into the templar's stomach and wiped his hand on his already stained shirt. "Pretender. As I'd thought."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. Alistair stumbled to the side, his hands fastened around the hilt protruding from his belly. The bastard had aimed it just right, snuck it through the plates of the templar's armor to reach the soft skin beneath. Blood, so dark in the dim light it looked black, gushed over the gleaming silver armor to pool on the floor. It lapped at the toes of my ebony boot, but still I didn't move. The templar crashed to the floor, upending a table. The sound should have jolted me, but it didn't. I was stone.

It was Oghren who rushed to Alistair's aid. "Easy, lad," he said, his rumbling voice more gentle than I'd ever heard it. "Bet that hurts like a bitch, don't it? No, leave it in, just until we get Wynne in here."

"Damn it," Alistair gasped. Blood stained his teeth.

"What are you standing there for, you sodding elf?" Oghren roared, his eyes on Zevran. "Go get Wynne!"

"Warden?" Zevran's sword and dagger were in his hands. Death danced in his eyes.

I stared at him, my brain slow and stupid. What was he asking me?

"I don't know what the sod is wrong with her, but she's useless. Go!"

A whisper of air, and the assassin was gone, melted into the shadows. My dance partner snorted and stepped up to me, his posture radiating confidence. I was powerless. He knew it. His fingers trailed along my cheek, a simple gesture that promised so much pain and hurt.

A hitched breath from beside me. "Get your--get your hands off her." Even injured, the templar still wanted to defend me. But it was too late. It had always been too late, hadn't it?

I _was_ a pretender. I pretended to know what I was doing. I pretended I was strong. I pretended I was powerful. My entire sodding life was a lie, wasn't it?

I'd even pretended that--that I didn't care for the templar. Alistair. And now he was laying there, bleeding, and I…

My dance partner gripped my chin, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise. "So, does the boy in the pretty armor fancy you, then?" His eyes narrowed to slits. "Even without your maidenhead intact? You did tell him about that, I hope. How you didn't fight us, how you just lay there and let it happen."

"You son of a--" Alistair choked. Coughed. My eyes darted to him, even as my face was held immobile. He sagged back, struggling for breath. More blood rushed out of his mouth.

Oghren swore. "Bloody nug-licker. Stay still, or you'll--" He broke off. Shook the templar. "Alistair. Alistair!"

My fellow Warden didn't move.

I broke.

I acted, and yet I didn't. It was me, and yet not, controlling my movements. I grabbed my dance partner's hand and shoved him away. He cried out as he stumbled back, my magically-enhanced strength taking him by surprise. I felt like I'd been split into two: one half watching in stunned shock, unable to do anything _but_ that; and the other operating on instinct to protect myself.

And do as much damage to my enemies as possible.

Words tumbled out of my mouth as I channeled a spell. In moments, I flung it into the air, and the temperature dropped as snow swirled around us. I'd barely taken a breath before my lips began forming the words to the next spell. Unarmored, nothing more than simple common folk without any combat training, these men could barely resist the effects of my summoned blizzard; paired with another spell, they would fall. Everyone within the tavern would. But I would be safe, and they would have paid, and--

"Kiann, no."

My mind truly was broken, because that was Alistair's voice, and he was dead. Pain lanced through my heart. I was going to be alone because of these bastards, on my own to defeat this darkness spreading across Ferelden. And I would defeat it. I'd crush it beneath my armored foot, because that's what Alistair would have wanted me to do. And as much as I wanted to curl up in a hole and just let the Blight take everything, I would not dishonor him like that. But first--first they would _pay_.

"Please. Don't do this." The words, his voice, rushed through my head. "It'll kill everyone."

Probably. I didn't care. And why did he? He was dead and only existed in my broken mind.

"Kiann--"

The final words spilled from my lips.

"No!"

A flash of power slammed into me, through me, tunneling through my magic deep into my spirit. I flew backwards and slammed into something that didn't give. The wall? My head cracked against it, and everything faded.


	11. Horizon

**Horizon**

Alistair was the first thing I saw when I awoke.

He sat beside my bedroll, one arm draped over a bent knee, his head braced in his hand. He wore a plain linen shirt and breeches, splattered with blood, and his normally robust golden skin had paled. His eyes weren't on me, but on the floor of the tent. Fatigue rolled off of him like a palpable wave.

But he was _alive_.

My hand flew to my mouth as my breath caught. His eyes widened and whipped to mine. He jumped forward, then hissed and grimaced, and pressed one hand against his abdomen. When he moved again, it was more slowly. He reached out a hand, then hesitated and drew it back.

"I'm sorry, Kiann," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth so fast they blended together. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to--it's not something I ever wanted to use against you. Please believe me. But you weren't listening, and I--"

"You're alive." The words were barely recognizable as such, but he heard them.

He frowned. "I'm--wait. You thought I was…"

I nodded, and the tears I'd barely managed to leash spilled forth.

"Oh, Maker." His face fell and he reached out a tentative hand again, but stopped himself from touching me.

I grabbed it. Intertwined my fingers with his. In a moment, he had stretched out beside me, his body hard and warm and strong and _here_…Maker, he was here and alive. I tucked myself against his chest, barely noticing that no bad memories stirred at the contact, and let the emotion overtake me.

I don't know how long I cried. He held me the entire time, whispering assurances, stroking my hair, pressing a chaste kiss or two to the crown of my head. After a time, the sobs lessened to hiccups, which in turn diminished to rough, hitching breaths.

I pulled at the linen covering his chest. "Your shirt is wet," I pointed out needlessly.

"I don't care about my shirt." He propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at me. "Are you all right?"

My eyes met his and I thought about lying. But me lying to myself, pretending to be something I wasn't, was what got him hurt in the first place. "No, I--I don't think so. I'm not--" I leaned my head against his chest, one fist bunching in his shirt. "I'm not right, Alistair. In my mind, I'm not _right_."

He was quiet for a long time. His heart beat evenly under my ear, the rhythm and his warmth more soothing than I'd thought possible. "I wish I knew how to fix it," he said, finally, his voice low.

"Me too." I closed my eyes as my heart twisted. "I just--I don't know who I am. I know who I'm supposed to be--the Grey Warden, savior of Ferelden, mighty killer of darkspawn and, hopefully, an archdemon--but when I think of myself, I see just little Kiann Surana, timid troublemaking mage who's scared of mice."

"We're all trying to figure out where we fit, Kiann. I mean--Maker, can you see me as King? Truly?" He snorted. "Eamon is clearly insane."

I ran the pad of my thumb over Alistair's, mulling over that idea. "Actually, I think you'd make a great king."

"Really?" He pulled back slightly to look down at me. "Whatever would give you that idea?"

"You'd look great in a crown?"

"Funny."

One corner of my lips quirked, and I looked away from his hazel gaze. "You're kind, and honest, and strong, and you know what's right. That sounds like a pretty good king to me."

"But I don't know anything about governing. Or politics. Maker, I don't _want_ to know about those things. You saw what it was like in Orzammar. I'm not holding out much hope that the circles of nobility in Denerim are much different." He sighed. "I want to be a Grey Warden. I'm good at it--except when getting stabbed by random brutes in a tavern," he amended with a wry chuckle. "I've never wanted to be King."

I arched a brow and met his eyes again. "Never? I find that hard to believe."

Some of the light in his eyes faded. "No, never King. A prince, maybe, if it meant I could know my father and my brother. But not King." His head drooped. "Not that what I want has ever mattered. Eamon's got it in his head that a Theirin needs to be on the throne, and seeing as I'm the last one they've got…well, hurrah for me."

"You really don't want it?" I laid a hand on his cheek and nudged his chin so he looked at me. "This isn't some lack of confidence thing where you think you can't do it?"

"Oh, I know I can't do it." He smiled. "Unless governing a country requires killing darkspawn on a regular basis, and sadly I suspect eventually that won't be the case. But…" His smile disappeared as he groaned. "I know my duty. If I have to take the crown as part of what's required to defeat Loghain and the Blight, then I'll do it. I'll hate every minute of it, but I'll do it."

I regarded him for a moment, unsure of what to say. He was so much stronger than he knew. So much stronger than I was. I felt tears welling again and angrily dashed at my eyes.

"What did I do now?" Tenderly, he brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead. "If you keep this up, I'm going to need to change my shirt."

I snorted, then hiccupped. "Maker, I'm such a mess. You need to take over the lead. I'm incapable, it seems. Utterly incapable."

"No." He laid a hand firmly on my shoulder. "You're not incapable. You've gotten us this far, and I'm not going to let you give up. Just…lean on me, when you need to."

I lifted my eyes to meet his. By Andraste, he was…close. And large. Even laying on his side, he towered over me; but I didn't feel threatened. Heat poured from him like the sun, warming me when I thought I'd never be truly warm again. He even smelled like a summer's day; sunshine and warm metal and…man.

"Lean on you?" I breathed.

Memories flashed past my mind's eye, but I shoved them aside. _Alistair_. I knew him. I trusted him. I--

Cared for him.

"As often as you need to," he confirmed, his voice barely a breath. He drifted closer, those strong, firm lips nearly touching my own. Instead of kissing me, though, he rested his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. "I should go to my own tent. It's late. I just needed to be here when you awoke, to apologize."

"Thank you," I said. "For stopping me. I--" My throat turned to dust. "Thank you."

"I'll--I'll go then."

"Stay." The half-plea, half-order slipped past my lips. "I'm…not ready to be alone, just yet."

His gaze softened. "Of course."

I swallowed, and in the interest of clarity, rushed on. "Not because I want that. I don't. I mean, maybe, but not--"

He smiled and shook his head. "I know what you mean. If you promise to share your blanket, I'm yours for the rest of the night."

One of my brows arched. "That sounds a little raunchy."

Alistair chuckled, a flush rising in his cheeks. "It does, doesn't it? Oghren and Zevran would be so proud of me."

"Good night, Alistair." My eyes drifted shut and a feeling of peace flowed over me. Strange how alien it felt.

"Good night, Kiann. I'll be here when you wake up."

And he was.

###

Denerim sprawled over the Drakon River on the coast of the Amaranthine Sea, roads and bridges and buildings all twined together like some strange spider's web. I'd been a child the last time I'd seen Ferelden's capitol; my final memory of the place was watching the gates fall behind the templars' sure steps as they carried me down the road to my fate at the Circle. As soon as the odors of the city hit my nose, though, it was almost like I'd never left the Alienage, so familiar was it. It was an odd mix of the tangible, like garbage, and dog, and the scents of cooking food, and the intangible: fear, hurt, pain, happiness, laughter, love. As Eamon mentioned as we arrived at his estate, Denerim was as stubborn as a mabari and as good to have on our side. I believed every word of that.

And it was brimming with surprises. A short time following our arrival, Queen Anora, Loghain's daughter, sent her maid to us to seek out our help after her father's most trusted advisor, Arl Rendon Howe, imprisoned her at his Denerim compound. Even though my instincts screamed that helping Anora was going to get my team and me into trouble, I let Eamon convince me to do so.

Alistair and I ended up in prison for our efforts. We broke out, of course, thanks to Zevran and Leliana's talents for infiltration and subterfuge. When we returned to Eamon's estate, it was to discover that Anora had additional information about unrest in the city--the Alienage, specifically--that might help our cause to remove Loghain from the regency. We ventured there and discovered slave traders had been given permission by the regent to export elves out of Denerim to Tevinter. I'd nearly lost control again as rage blinded me, but Alistair tempered my reaction with a squeeze of his hand and a soft "Careful," whispered in my ear.

It was upon leaving the Alienage that we stumbled across his sister's house.

"That's--yes, that's her house. I'm sure of it." His face betrayed a range of emotions: hope, fear, worry, even a hint of happiness. "She might be inside. Could…we go and see?"

Exhaustion pulled at my muscles. The inevitability of the Landsmeet prodded me to race back to Eamon and Anora, but suddenly Alistair looked so young and innocent and hopeful. I remembered the joy I'd witnessed on his face in the Fade, when he'd lived the dream of finding his sister, being accepted, and having a real family. It stunned me how much I wanted that for him.

"Yes," I said. "Let's do that."

In moments, I wished I'd insisted we hadn't. We were both naïve, expecting reality to live up to the dream world we'd seen. Goldanna, his sister, was more of a nightmare. She railed against him for killing their mother--as if Alistair had any say in that--and demanded that, being a prince and all, he provide for his nieces and nephews. My heart broke as his face fell, disappointment and sorrow chasing each other across his features. Magic sparked at my fingertips and I shoved my hands behind my back to hide the evidence of my ire from both Alistair and his sister before suggesting to the templar that we leave. He agreed without hesitation.

"Well." He blew out a breath as we stopped in the road outside of his sister's shack. "That was…not what I was expecting, to put it lightly. This is the family I've been wondering about my entire life? That--that shrew is my sister? I can't believe it. I guess I thought she'd accept me without question. Isn't that what families are supposed to do?" He closed his eyes briefly, and his chin dipped. "I feel like a complete idiot."

I laid a hand on his arm, the metal of my gauntlet rasping against his armor. "I'm sorry, Alistair. I--I don't know what to say, except…" My lips twisted as I searched for the words that would make it all right. But there weren't any, were there? "You don't need her. You have other people in your life that care for you."

"Such as?" He shook his head. "Duncan was the only person who ever cared for me, and he's gone."

"Are you really that dense?" I snatched my hand away from him and marched off, not caring if he followed or not. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Zev and Oghren share knowing looks, but I ignored them.

"What? Kiann, wait. Maker's blood." He muttered the last under his breath as he jogged to catch up to me. "What did I say _now_?"

"Nothing. You go right on believing that Duncan was the only person in the world who ever cared for you. Poor Alistair, the little abandoned templar." I waved him off with one hand and continued walking.

His strides matched mine without much effort. "You drive me insane, you know that?"

"No more than you me."

He made a frustrated noise and grabbed my hand, halting me. "Will you stop?"

I stared at him, the hurt still lingering in his eyes, and I did the stupidest thing I'd ever done. I propped myself onto my tiptoes, reached a hand behind his neck, and pulled his lips down to mine.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. I had too much anger sizzling through me for that. It was hard, and it was a little rough, and his lips were frozen under mine at first. Fear trickled through me that I'd just made a complete fool of myself…but then he stepped forward and captured me in his arms, and the kiss wasn't mine to control anymore. His lips opened, his tongue tentatively tasting mine, and heat flowed through me. It melted any resistance I had; any memories that might torment me could not stand against it. This was Alistair, and he was kissing me, and--Maker, I never wanted it to end.

Zevran cleared his throat. "I have seen this a time or two, my dear Wardens. But generally one is inclined to get a room for such activities, no?"

I pulled away with a gasp at the Antivan's reminder of where we were. My eyes sought out Alistair's even as I fell back a couple of steps. I wasn't sure what I'd expected to see in his gaze--embarrassment, perhaps, or maybe nervousness--but the intensity there, the passion, shocked me. Then he blinked, and his hazel eyes softened.

"We're in this together," I said softly, hoping that he would understand what I couldn't say.

A slight smile curved his lips. "That we are. I've got your back. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I said. "I do."


	12. Decree

**Decree**

With the evidence we gathered, I hoped we had enough to convince Anora to support us against her father, but she played the game much better than I. Maker…I barely even knew there _was_ a game. Upon our return to the estate, Eamon informed me that the Queen wished to have a discussion with me alone. I ventured into her room to speak with her and she proposed a deal: her support for mine. If I allowed her--Andraste's mercy, now there was a concept, me _allowing_ her--to stay Queen, she would see to it that we had the help we needed to defeat the Blight. I murmured my agreement to the arrangement, even as confusion and uncertainty swirled through my mind.

Was Anora the best choice for Ferelden? I knew nothing of her, except what I saw in her eyes: ambition, determination, strength, and more than a little ruthlessness. I supposed that was what was needed to navigate the political intrigue inherent in running a country, but what if I was wrong? Eamon had hinted broadly that Theirin blood was needed to keep Ferelden whole and intact, though he hadn't had time to go into details. What if Eamon was right and Ferelden would fracture without Alistair?

The way Eamon deferred to me, to some extent, and now the Queen--didn't they know I was no one? Why by Andraste's ever-burning pyre did they think _I_ should have any say in the political fate of Ferelden? I was just a mage. Take away my magic and I was just a girl, thrown into situations I didn't understand and trying to do my best to do the right thing.

I truly doubted my best was good enough.

"So," Alistair greeted me as I returned to the Arl's study. Eamon was nowhere in evidence, and nor was Riordan, the Orlesian Grey Warden we'd rescued from Arl Howe's dungeon. "I saw Anora earlier. I guess someone told her I was going to steal her throne. She gave me a nasty glare."

"It wasn't me, so you can stop with that look." I crossed my arms and leaned against one of the bookshelves lining the walls.

"It's nearly upon us, isn't it?" He puffed up his chest and deepened his voice dramatically. "The moment of truth. The moment of reckoning. The moment of--"

"Must you always joke about these things?"

"Well…yes." He gave me a sheepish grin. "Would you prefer I vomit? Because, honestly, it's a toss up between those two reactions. I thought you'd opt for the jokes instead, but…"

A laugh snorted out of me.

A deeper emotion entered his face, more than just the self-deprecating humor that was always close at hand. "It's good to hear that again. You laughing, I mean. Kiann--"

Maker, he was going to talk about the kiss. I could see it in his eyes, and--and I couldn't entertain any thoughts about that, not yet. Not now, maybe not later. "Eamon and Anora seem to think I'll have a say at the Landsmeet."

He arched a brow, but went along with my change of subject. "And why wouldn't you? You're the reason Ferelden is united."

"You have seen my ears, right? How pointy they are?"

"What--pointed ears? Maker's breath. Are you telling me you're an elf?" His eyes widened in feigned shock.

I nodded solemnly. "And a mage."

"Well, that explains the tingles." His cheeks reddened. "Er…that sounded odd. From the magic, I mean. Magic tingles."

"Magical tingles?"

"No…to templars, magic itself tingles--never mind." He sighed. "Yes, I know you're an elf and a mage, and at this point, I don't think it matters. You've proven yourself to the nobility and they'll listen to you. Unless you try to put yourself forth as Queen. That might be a problem."

"Yes, me as Queen. There's a marvelous idea." I rolled my eyes. "I can barely hold together a group of seven people and a dog. I've no interest in trying my hand at running a country."

"You and me both."

"Good." I took a breath. "Because I've agreed to support Anora."

"Really?" Something flickered in his eyes, there and gone so quickly I couldn't really identify it. Disappointment? No, that didn't make sense. "I'm…relieved, actually. Eamon would likely fall back into a coma if you told him, but me…I'm relieved to hear it."

"Truly?"

His lips curved. "Truly. Now, let's move on to more pleasant topics, shall we? About earlier--"

"Ah, Warden." Eamon strode into the study, a smile emerging from beneath his massive grey beard. "I see you've returned. Might I have a word?"

I shot Alistair an apologetic look, but secretly I thanked the Maker for the Arl's interruption. I followed Eamon out of the study, to the library, where he took one of the seats in front of the fire and bade me to do the same.

"Did you have a chance to speak with Anora, Warden?"

Right to the meat of the matter, then. "I did."

"And did she ask for your support in the Landsmeet?"

I regarded the Arl carefully. He returned my consideration evenly. "She did," I said after a moment.

"I see. I won't ask what you told her. I will simply share this." One of Eamon's hands stroked his beard absently as he watched the fire. "Calenhad, the Silver Knight--Alistair's ancestor--united Ferelden four hundred years ago. It is because of him that we have a country instead of warring teyrnirs, each striving for supremacy and ultimately weakening each other. The legacy he wrought is what we fought to preserve during the Orlesian occupation." He turned his eyes to me. "You're too young to remember that, aren't you?"

"Yes, your grace." I inclined my head. "Though I've heard stories."

The Arl's lips twisted and his eyes darkened. "Stories don't do it justice, lass. Ferelden was enslaved for nearly a century, under horrible, brutal conditions. Nobles turned on nobles, citizens on citizens, all to try to save what little heritage we had left. It was Maric, Alistair's father, who rallied the country after the death of the Rebel Queen. He was just a boy at the time, a bit younger than you, I believe, but he knew what had to be done to free his nation. He faced terrible hardships, terrible decisions, all to ensure that the Theirin blood could once again claim the true Ferelden throne." He met my eyes again, and his shone with a passion, a pride, I hadn't seen before. "That is the blood that runs through Alistair's veins, Warden. The blood of heroes. The blood that saved this nation. We fought tirelessly during the occupation to restore that blood to its rightful place, and, as long as one of Maric's sons lives, his place is at the head of the country. Do you understand?"

"But…" I swallowed. "Alistair doesn't want to be King."

The Arl closed his eyes and his head drooped. "And that is my fault, I fear. Maric wanted the boy raised out of court, away from politics, and so he was placed in my care. He was never to know of his heritage; but boys will be boys, and the lad figured it out at one point. I never did discover how--perhaps he overheard me talking with Teagan. Maker knows. Once he did know, however, I had to make sure he understood that ruling the country was not in his future. We did not want him used as a political pawn by any

nobles who did not agree with Cailan's governance. So I trained him to be averse to the idea, and, when he was old enough, we sent him to the Chantry so that the throne would never be a consideration for him."

"You've never given him a choice in anything, have you?"

His lips thinned. "I wish it could have been different, as did Maric. But the life of a noble, particularly of royal blood, rarely allows for such frivolities as deciding to do what you want instead of what you're required to do. Alistair has a duty, Warden, to take up his father's throne. It's in his blood, and blood won't be denied."

That looked that flashed over his face when I'd told him I was supporting Anora--did he truly want the throne? Was he telling me he didn't for my sake?

"But enough. Did you discover anything useful in the Alienage?"

I nodded absently, my mind still whirling with the idea that Alistair might actually want to be King, and he was lying to me about it. "Loghain was allowing Tevinter slavers to take elves from the Alienage."

"Maker's mercy. Slavery?" The Arl's eyes narrowed. "I should be appalled, but part of me is glad for this information. It's one more dent in his armor. I'll send word for the nobles to gather for the Landsmeet, then."

"What--now?" My heart stuttered.

"Now. Bring Alistair to the Palace, and let's have this done."

###

We walked into the meeting of Ferelden's nobility covered in blood. I could feel it drying on my face, and in the hush that surrounded our appearance in the center of the room, I could hear it dripping from the tip of my sword to the stone and wood beneath our feet. Ser Cauthrien would not back down, despite my best efforts to convince her of Loghain's treachery. She'd attacked, and Alistair and I had defended ourselves--and, Maker, I was so tired of all of this needless death.

A handful of words had barely burst from Loghain's lips before I grasped exactly why he was so popular. Despite his harsh features, he easily captivated everyone in the Landsmeet. His voice rang with truth--whether it was actually the truth, what he believed, or what he wanted the nobility to believe, was irrelevant. His was a voice that could compel the injured to fight, or enemies to switch sides, or friends to turn on one another. And suddenly I understood why Eamon had insisted on gathering evidence of Loghain's vile actions rather than just trying to argue against him.

We presented our case: the torture of a captured noble and the poisoning of Eamon. I opened my mouth to add the accusations of slave trading to the pile, but the regent interrupted me with a demand to see his daughter. Almost as if she'd been listening for her cue--and perhaps she had been--Anora appeared and denounced her father.

And just as quickly as that, the decisions were cast, and we stood victorious. Loghain challenged the ruling, and the Landsmeet declared that a duel was required to finalize the outcome. I could not deny Alistair the chance to visit some measure of vengeance on the man who'd killed Duncan, so I proclaimed him my champion. The duel was fought, but I could see in Loghain's movements that he knew his time was done. I felt no surprise when the regent fell to one knee, breathing heavily.

"I yield," he rasped as he threw his weapons to the ground, then regained his feet. "There's some of Maric in you, after all."

"Forget Maric," Alistair spat, his eyes narrowed. "This is for Duncan."

He glanced at me, as if for confirmation that he was doing the right thing. I turned my gaze to Loghain. How many lives had this man ruined in his misguided attempt to save the country from an imagined threat? Not just the men and women killed at Ostagar, but their families, and the citizens fighting against each other in the Bannorn, and the poor folk of Redcliffe.

The Wardens. Duncan. I'd never wanted to be a Warden--I still didn't know if it was for me--but they didn't deserve Loghain's treachery. Alistair didn't deserve to lose the one place he'd belonged.

I jerked my chin in an abrupt nod.

Alistair stepped forward and carried out justice.

###

"So, it's been decided," Eamon declared, his voice ringing throughout the hall. "Alistair will take his father's throne."

"Wait, what? No. No one's decided anything!" Alistair waved his hands in front of him, as if to ward off Eamon's words. "Have they?"

"He refuses it. Everyone here has heard him," Anora crowed. "He abdicates in favor of me."

The Arl sighed and shook his head. "I hardly think you're the best part to mediate this dispute, Anora. Warden! Will you aid us?"

My gaze dropped to my feet. Maker. It had come to this: little Kiann Surana, mage, Grey Warden, solver of problems various and sundry, deciding who would rule the country. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but I feared if I did, I might never stop.

My eyes darted from Anora to Alistair. The agreement I'd made with Anora flitted through my mind; the discussion I'd had with Eamon weighed heavily on it. And somewhere in there as well was the talk I'd had with Alistair when I'd awoken to find him in my tent, anxious to apologize; and the flash of darkness in his gaze when I'd informed him of my plan to support Anora.

Then I thought of Duncan. And my decision became blindingly clear.


	13. Approach

**Approach**

I inhaled deeply and stared at the floor for a moment before raising my eyes and my voice. "Anora will rule."

Alistair blinked. Then a wide smile bloomed on his face. "She will?"

"Thank you, Warden." Reaffirmed in her role as Queen, the blonde woman stepped forward. "My first act must be to insist that Alistair renounce his claim to the throne, for himself and his heirs."

"Yes!" the templar declared. "Of course. Happily, even."

Oh, Maker, it was difficult to keep a straight face when he beamed at me like that. I longed to take his hand in mine, but now was not the time nor the place for that kind of display. Anora stepped forward and rallied the nobles with a quick speech, declaring me the commander of her armies.

My stomach clenched. _That_ was something we hadn't discussed. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised, but--dear Maker. A mage leading an army?

"We will fight this Blight," she shouted, "and we will defeat it, for we are Ferelden!"

The nobles cheered their Queen loudly and vigorously, and my nerves settled somewhat. Until I caught a glimpse of Eamon's glowering face. But the nobility began to disperse, and the Arl was quickly swept into the crowd.

"Kiann."

I turned at my name to find Alistair still smiling stupidly at me. "You didn't make me King," he said, his voice stunned. "Loghain was brought to judgment, and I didn't need to be King to do it. I--I just--"

I caught my lower lip between my teeth. "Are you--you're not mad about that, are you?"

"Yes, I'm terribly furious, which is why I'm grinning from ear to ear. Maker's breath, woman." He laughed. "That has hung over my head my entire life, and now, it's gone. I'll never have to worry about it again. I can just be who and what I was meant to be. Not Alistair Theirin, bastard son of Maric the Savior, but just plain old Alistair, Grey Warden."

"So…" I took a deep breath. "You're really all right with that?"

"Yes!" The affirmation burst out of him as rushed forward to enfold me in a hug. "Thank you, Kiann. A thousand thank-yous." He brushed a metal-gloved hand against my cheek, and the tang of it filled my nostrils. I closed my eyes, and he pressed his lips to mine.

This kiss was sweet, not rushed. His mouth nudged mine, asking permission for the caress and receiving it gladly. My lips parted and warmth spread through me as he groaned. After a lifetime, he pulled away.

"Thank you," he whispered again. "But--why?"

"Duncan." A rueful smile quirked my lips and I shook my head.

"You didn't think Duncan would have wanted me to be King?" He frowned.

"Well…okay, that's a valid point. But no, that wasn't my reasoning. It's pretty simple. Duncan forced me into a life I didn't want, and I couldn't do the same to you."

"A life you didn't want." Alistair's smile faded, as did the joyous light in his gaze. "Even after all--even after--" He pressed his lips together. "You don't want this?"

Something in his tone of voice warned me that I was treading on unsteady ground. "I…don't know. It's not something I ever expected--"

"So therefore it must be horrible, awful, and fought against for the rest of your life."

I gritted my teeth. "Don't put words in my mouth, templar."

"And there you go with the templar thing again. For the hundredth time, Kiann, I was never a full templar!" He growled in frustration. "You are going to be the death of me."

"No," I said, my ire dissipating. "Never that."

"You are the most frustrating, irritating, irrational woman I have ever met." Alistair ran a gauntleted hand through his short hair, making the spikes at the front even more uneven. "Whenever I'm around you, my head feels like it's about to explode, and I can't tell if it's because you infuriate me or--" His voice calmed. "Or something else."

"Warden." My eyes darted to the Queen as she approached. "So, it is done. My father is dead. He was mad, and he needed to make amends for what he'd done, but…I wish there had been another way."

I looked at the floor, the pain in Anora's voice and eyes too much to bear. For an instant, I wondered what would have occurred if I had dueled Loghain. Would I have been able to execute him? Maker, would we even be standing here? I would not regret Alistair's actions; I couldn't. There was already too much on my shoulders.

She cleared her throat. "At any rate, Arl Eamon asked me to tell you that he will be departing for Redcliffe immediately. The armies are gathering there to prepare for battle in the south. You should not delay in joining him."

"No, certainly not, your Majesty." I crossed my arms over my chest and bowed.

"I will see you at Redcliffe, then, Warden." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Maker light our path."

###

My small band of companions marched to Redcliffe a few hours behind Arl Eamon and his retinue of soldiers. During our trek, I spent some time with each of my friends, talking about nothing. Each one of us knew that the horizon was approaching, the vanishing point nearly upon us. Chances were good that we would not all survive, despite being ridiculously awesome, as Zev put it.

I glanced at Alistair, dreading talking with him and yet longing for it with every fiber in my body. But the road was not the place for the conversation I wanted to have, and when we camped I was more concerned with replenishing my energy through food and sleep than expending it in a discussion, the mere thought of which set my stomach to clenching and my palms to sweating.

We arrived in Redcliffe village on the third day to discover it overrun with darkspawn. Thankfully, the majority of villagers had fled to the castle before the horde had appeared. My team and I waded into the fray, destroying every genlock, hurlock and ogre in our path, both in the village proper and the courtyard of the castle. Once the creatures had been vanquished, we were ushered into the main hall to meet with the Arl, Bann Teagan, the Queen, and Riordan.

"I'm glad to see you uninjured." The Orlesian Grey Warden greeted Alistair and I with a slight bow and a tiny curve to his lips. His accented voice soothed my nerves.

"You as well, Riordan," Alistair returned. "What news do you bring?"

"Dire news, I'm afraid." The slight smile fell and his bright blue eyes darkened. "The darkspawn that attacked Redcliffe were relatively few in number. The majority of the horde marches on Denerim. They look to reach the city in two days."

"Maker's blood," Teagan gasped.

"But--" I frowned and shook my head. "Are you sure? Why did we think they were coming here?"

"I ventured close enough to the horde to 'listen in', as it were, so yes, I am sure of its destination." Riordan crossed his arms. "Most of the attacks had been in the south, and a large group had split off to assault this area. We assumed that it was a precursor to the rest of the horde, not a distraction. And…" He took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I have other, more troubling news." He turned to regard the fire behind him. "The archdemon has shown itself. It flies at the head of the horde."

"Maker preserve us," Anora whispered.

"But we can't reach Denerim in two days, can we?" Horror filled Alistair's voice.

My mind spun as I tried to think of ways we could prevent the impending disaster. "What if--what if we just took a small group? A few people could reach Denerim much faster than an entire army."

Riordan shook his head. "I'm afraid that won't work. There is still the horde between us and the archdemon, and a small group will not make it through on its own. We need the army to engage the horde, distract it, and then we can infiltrate to reach the dragon."

An awful sense of inevitability wound through me. Denerim would fall. Thousands of people would die. I closed my eyes and sent a brief prayer to Andraste.

"Then we need to march as soon as possible," the Queen declared. "Arl Eamon, when can the army begin to move?"

Despair lined the Arl's eyes. "Daybreak, your Majesty."

Anora nodded. "Daybreak it is, then."

"Kiann, if you and Alistair would meet with me before you retire for the evening, we have Grey Warden business to discuss." Riordan inclined his head and bowed to the Queen. "Your Majesty, your grace."

I watched the senior Grey Warden leave with a sinking sensation in my stomach. Whatever he wanted to discuss, it wasn't good news.

###

We retreated to our rooms, briefly, to change out of our battle-stained armor. It felt odd to wear my old mage robe again, the one I'd received after my Harrowing. I felt almost like I'd come full circle; almost, but not quite. I wasn't the same Kiann who had romped through the Tower with Jowan. I wasn't even the same Kiann who had left with Duncan. But I was Kiann.

I stared at the black and gold armor on its stand in the corner of my room. The burnished griffon gleamed in the firelight and I reached out to trace one of its pinions with a fingertip. Purpose. That's what being a Grey Warden had given me. Was that so bad? Did I really have to fight against that? Maybe it was time I stopped sulking about that choice being taken away from me. I'd done…all right as a Grey Warden, I supposed. I'd succeeded in all of the tasks laid before me thus far, despite the horrible events I'd endured. I'd lived up to the Wardens' ideal: I'd done what I must.

Pulling my hand back to my side, I gave my head a little shake. Now was not the time for thoughts as deep as those. I needed to speak with Riordan.

Alistair awaited me outside of the senior Warden's room. He wore his plain linen shirt and thick breeches, the skin of his face pink, like he'd given it a good scrubbing. As I approached, he reached out and gripped my hand, then brought it to his lips.

"There you are." His eyes lingered on mine. "Let's go see what Riordan has to say, shall we?"

He released my hand and waved for me to proceed him into the room. Riordan stood rigidly, lost in thought, his head bowed. At our footfalls, he straightened. "Tell me," he said by way of greeting, "do you know why Grey Wardens are needed to end the Blight?"

I blinked. It had never really occurred to me. "I assumed it was because of our skill in battling the darkspawn."

"If that were the case, lass, anyone with enough skill to swing a sword would suffice." The senior Warden's light eyes glittered. "I had hoped Duncan would have told you, but I suppose there wasn't time, was there? I should have told you this as soon as you rescued me in Denerim, and for that, I am sorry."

"What is it?" Alistair stepped forward. "What are you apologizing for?"

"An archdemon can be slain like any other darkspawn," Riordan said. "But the essence of the Old God will simply travel through the taint to the nearest darkspawn and be born anew. Thus the archdemon is all but immortal.

"If a Grey Warden slays the dragon, however, the essence of the Old God travels into the Warden. Since a man is not a soulless vessel, the archdemon cannot be reborn. Its essence is destroyed…along with the Grey Warden."

The air rushed out of my lungs. _In death, sacrifice._ Maker.

"So…you're saying that the Grey Warden who kills the archdemon…dies?" Alistair looked as shocked as I felt.

Riordan's lips thinned as he nodded. "I'm afraid so."

My eyes darted to the templar, the planes of his face highlighted by the fire smoldering in the room's fireplace. In my mind's eye, I could see him racing toward the dragon, sword and shield held high as he screamed his defiance. Pain ripped through me. I could not--I _would_ _not_--lose him. I would rather meet the Maker myself.

"I'll do it." My words rang through the small room, my tone unwavering.

"Andraste's ass you will," Alistair snapped.

Riordan held up a hand. "It does my heart good to hear such bravery. However, I am the oldest, and the task should fall to me if at all possible. The taint will not spare me for much longer. But enough. There will be time enough to think about this on the morrow. You should try to get some rest."

Rest, he said, as though any of us would be able to sleep. Alistair and I left the room together, but I marched ahead, toward my room. I couldn't face him just yet.

"Kiann!"

My steps paused. "I need--"

"Come see me. When you can." His voice was low. "Please."

I nodded, and continued to my quarters.


	14. Boundary

_A/N: Just a reminder that this story is rated M for a reason... :)_

---

**Boundary**

I froze on the threshold of my room. The figure standing before the fire, silhouetted against the golden glow, was unmistakable. I forced my feet to carry me further, refusing to let her sudden appearance prevent me from seeking refuge in my own quarters.

"Don't you have your own room, Morrigan?" I came to a stop a few feet behind her and crossed my arms over my chest.

"Aye, 'tis true." She cast a glance over her shoulder at me. "But I have decided 'tis time we talk, you and I."

"Talk? About what?" I shrugged. "How you think everything I've done is a waste of time? How you despise my love of the Circle? Please, Morrigan, I'm eager for verbal sparring with you, tonight. This is _exactly_ what I need."

"I know what happens when an archdemon dies," she said, turning to face me. "I know that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed."

My arms fell to my sides. "You--you know? But how…?"

"Flemeth, of course. 'Tis the reason she sent me with you. You must have wondered at that, surely."

I frowned. I hadn't, truthfully, but Alistair had. He'd mentioned it to me once, weeks ago, when we'd been discussing our companions one night at camp.

"I have another option for you, however," Morrigan said, stepping up to me. "A way for the archdemon to die, and all the Grey Wardens to live. A ritual."

My heart pounded against my breastbone, hope and fear competing for dominance. "Continue," I prompted.

"'Tis simple." She moved to my bed and sat on the edge. "Convince Alistair to lay with me, here, tonight, and from this union a child will be conceived. This child will bear the taint. When the archdemon is killed, the essence of the Old God will seek out the child, like a beacon, and it will be absorbed without doing harm. The dragon will be dead, the Old God gone, and no Grey Wardens sacrificed in the process."

"You want--you want Alistair to father a child with you?" I shook my head. "Are you serious?"

"As serious as the situation you find yourself in, Kiann." Morrigan's amber eyes narrowed. "Are you truly willing to sacrifice yourself or the man you love?"

My eyes widened and I shook my head. "I--I don't--"

"If you do not see it within yourself, then you are a greater fool than I thought." She snorted. "You make quite the pair, let me tell you. The looks he sends your way when you are not aware…ugh. Disgusting." She shook her head. "Do you think that Alistair will allow you to kill the dragon, knowing it will mean your death? Truly?"

"I'd like to see him try to stop me."

"Surely what I ask is not so high a price, not when it means the two of you can live the rest of your lives together."

I bit my lip. "And what do you ask in return?"

"When this battle is done, I walk away, and you do not follow. Ever. The child will be mine to raise as I wish."

"And if Alistair--" Oh, Maker, was I actually considering this? "If Alistair wants to see his child?"

The swamp witch shook her head. "He may wish to, but he will not. 'Tis all I require."

"And if we say no?"

"Then I leave. Now. I will not stand by and watch you throw your lives away when you could have avoided it."

"I--" My throat closed. "I'll go speak with him."

"Might I suggest you be as persuasive as possible? Your lives depend upon it." The swamp witch reclined on the bed. "I will be here."

I left my room and paused out of sight of the door, one hand braced against the wall. Could I do this? Could I actually ask this of Alistair? I didn't want to die, but more than that, I didn't want _him_ to die. Morrigan's words reverberated within my mind. He was a knight, and a gentleman. Though he'd deferred to me over the months we'd travelled together, I did not think he would passively let me sacrifice myself. He would fight me, and we could not afford that.

This was the only way.

My mind made up, I strode down the hall to Alistair's room. It was smaller than mine, but at least Eamon hadn't relegated him to the stables again. My steps faltered at the doorway as I saw the templar, seated, his head cradled in his hands. My determination wavered.

I must have made some sound, because he looked up, then rose, his face serious. "Kiann. Thank the Maker. I thought you wouldn't--we wouldn't--"

"I'm here." I hugged my arms to my chest, wondering how by Andraste's knickers I was going to broach Morrigan's offer to him.

"Good. I'm…. Good." He paced a few steps to the side, then back. "I know this isn't the best time for this. We're tired, and there's so much ahead of us. But with Riordan's news--"

"About that." I squeezed my eyes shut. "Morrigan came to see me--"

"Please let me finish." He crossed his arms over his chest, and somehow managed to look even more impressive than when he wore full armor. "I need to get this out before I lose my nerve, because I doubt I'll have another chance." He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising as his lungs filled to capacity. "You amaze me. Everything you've done, after everything you've been through--" He shook his head, his eyes shining. "I can barely comprehend how you remained strong enough, whole enough, to do it. I don't know if I could have continued on after--after that. Never doubt that you are Ferelden's hero, Kiann, for you truly are."

My breath left me. "Alistair…"

"I…want to give you something." He strode to his pack leaning against the wall and rummaged through it. Rising, he held out something to me. "Here. Do you know what this is?"

I looked down at the object in my hands. "A rose?"

One corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "I picked it in Lothering."

"Lothering?" My eyes shot up to his. "Maker's breath. You've had it all this time?"

"I know. Funny how well-preserved it is, isn't it? I should have left it. But the darkspawn would have come and their taint would have destroyed it…so I've had it ever since." His gaze softened. "It reminds me of you."

I chuckled, a sound that had more sorrow than laughter in it. "You think of me as a gentle flower?"

"A gentle flower? No, I wouldn't put it quite like that." The corners of his eyes creased as he smiled. "Beauty hiding thorns, maybe, that strike out when you least expect it."

"Oh, that's terribly romantic." I rolled my eyes.

"But so true." He reached out and brushed a finger against a strand of hair dangling in front of my ear. "No, in all honesty, it reminds me that beauty and goodness and wonder can be found even in the darkest of places. And you, similarly, are a rare and wonderful thing amidst all this…darkness."

"I--" I tore my gaze from his and looked at the floor as my eyes burned. "I don't know what to say."

He moved his hand to my chin and nudged my eyes back to his. "I want you to have it, as a--as a promise. I wish I had a ring to give you instead, but…" He shrugged.

My breath caught. "Alistair, are you asking me--"

"No." His eyes turned serious. "Not yet. If we survive--well, if we survive, you'll see what my intentions are. But I can't, not yet, not if--"

I silenced him with a finger against his lips. "I understand."

He pressed a kiss to the pad of my finger and smiled sadly. "You said something about Morrigan?"

"What if--" I took a deep breath and tucked his rose into my belt pouch. "What if there was a way for us to avoid dying tomorrow? You, me, Riordan?"

"Other than running away, right? Because I can't do that."

"Other than running away," I confirmed. "Morrigan has a ritual. And you, uh…you aren't going to like it."

"Why am I not shocked to hear that." He pulled back and rubbed a hand over his hair. "Tell me."

Maker, give me strength. "You need to sleep with Morrigan to make a child who will have the taint and absorb the soul of the Old God."

Alistair stared at me, his face blank. Then his brows drew down. "You want me to _what_?" he roared.

My eyes slid closed briefly against the horror on his face. "I know. I _know_. But it's the only way we can guarantee--"

"There are no guarantees. We might all die before we even reach the archdemon."

"Isn't that enough of a reason to do this, then? This would ensure that anyone could kill it."

"So you're willing to use me--to use a _child_?" Alistair fell back a few steps. "Maker's breath, Kiann. How can you ask this of me? You know I've never--I haven't--done _that_. And you want me to…with Morrigan?" He sucked in a lungful of air. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Tears splashed against my cheeks. "I don't want you to die, Alistair."

He looked down and shook his head. "Nor I you, but this…"

"She's beautiful." I bit my lip. Far more so than I, with my ragged hair and slight curves.

"She's mean. And evil. And…"

The horror, the revulsion in his face hadn't diminished. I gulped as bile rose in my throat, burning. I couldn't--I couldn't--

I squeezed my eyes shut. No, this was wrong. Utterly wrong. If I forced Alistair to do this, if I begged and pleaded and coerced him…I was no better than the men at Lake Calenhad, was I?

"I'm sorry." The words whispered past my lips. "I shouldn't have--but, Maker, I can't lose you, Alistair. I can't."

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. A week ago, the gesture would have sent panic through me; now, it comforted me. "Riordan will succeed," he breathed and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "You'll see."

I listened to his heart beating under my ear. "This is our last night," I murmured.

"Don't talk like that."

I pulled back. "But it's true. And I--I don't want to waste it."

He held my gaze, his own intense. "Kiann…are you sure?"

"Are you? You were the one balking at the idea a moment ago, if I recall."

"At the thought of--of Morrigan." He shuddered. "But, with you…yes. If you'll have me."

"Even though--" My throat clogged and I couldn't finish the sentence.

"Even with what happened to you?" Alistair leaned his forehead against mine. "Oh, Kiann, that doesn't matter." Gently, so gently, he kissed me.

I melted against him, and he caught me. Held me close. His lips did wondrous things to my mouth, teasing and tasting and driving my desire to a peak. I pulled his shirt out of his breeches and snuck my hands beneath it. His skin was warm, toned, smooth, under my palms. My fingers explored the ridges of his abdomen, loving how the muscles danced beneath them. I pushed his shirt up, and he pulled back, briefly, to tear it off of himself before returning his lips to mine. My thumb brushed against one of his nipples and he sucked in a breath.

My hands drifted back to his stomach, and I traced the scar there from the stabbing at The Spoiled Princess. Giving in to impulse, I leaned down and kissed it.

"Maker's breath, Kiann." His body tensed, but he let me continue. I pressed my lips to the jagged scar again, then nuzzled my way across his hard stomach, and upwards, kissing and licking and tasting as I went. Sunshine and metal, a scent so familiar now, swirled around me, filling my senses. When I reached his lips again, he took mine with barely restrained ardor. His muscles vibrated with the effort to keep himself in check, and it only stoked me higher.

"Bed," I whispered. "Now. Please, now."

"Your desire is my command," he said with a gentle smile, and scooped me into his arms.

He laid me on the bed almost reverently, then joined me, stretching along one side. He propped himself up on one elbow and used the other hand to unsnap the fasteners along the front of my robe. I shivered, trepidation making my heart pound and my head spin, and he paused, leaning forward to kiss me breathless again. In moments, my robes had been dispensed, as had my smallclothes.

"Maker," he breathed. "You are so beautiful."

_"Oh, aye, she's a beauty, ain't she? And so willing." He laughs and bends down to kiss me sloppily._

My breath hitched and my eyes snapped shut.

"Kiann?" His fingers were feather-light on my cheek.

"I--I'm sorry." A tear leaked from beneath my eyelid, slithering down my cheek to my ear.

"Open your eyes, love. Keep them on me."

I blinked my eyes open and looked up at him blearily. He kept looking at me, his eyes locked on mine, even as I felt his hand move down my stomach, to--

My breath gasped out of me, my back arching, as he touched me _there_. "A-Alistair," I whimpered. His fingers moved just right, and I could feel pleasure building. My eyes fell to half-mast.

"Eyes open," he said, his voice gruff.

I obeyed, my need burning brighter to see him looking down at me, passion plain on his face. "How did you--" My question dissolved into a moan as one of his fingers slipped inside of me.

"On watch. With Zevran. He liked to try to make me blush by sharing how to pleasure a woman. I'm sure he'd be pleased to know I actually listened." He groaned as my hips matched the movements of his hand.

A giggle-whimper flowed out of me. "I am, too," I gasped.

"Really?" He grinned wickedly.

"Yes, r-really…_oh_, Alistair!"

I flew apart. That was the only description for the sensation of shattering, of dispersing, then floating back to reality. My vision dimmed. Warmth rushed through me, tingles; my magic strained against my will, striving for release, but I kept it under control. When sight returned, Alistair leaned over me, need evident in every line of his face. He kissed me, hard, rushed, urgent. I felt skin against skin, _there_, and I realized his breeches had vanished.

My breaths quickened, shooting in and out of my lungs so fast my vision began to get spotty. Panic spurted through me. He was so large, so strong, and he had me pinned, trapped--

_He holds me down, fingers twisting my nipple, as he thrusts into me like a knife--_

"I can't, I can't, I can't." I pounded my palms against Alistair's chest, barely able to speak with my breath so uneven and rapid.

He rolled onto his side, giving me space. One hand traced the curves of my face and brushed away the tears. "Shh," he breathed. "It's all right."

"I'm sorry. Damn it, I'm so weak."

"Stop. Stop blaming yourself for what they did." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Do you want to…not do this?"

"No, I want to, it's just--" I closed my eyes. "I don't know if I can."

"Here, then." I heard him shift and when I looked, he was laying flat on his back. "Do what you will."

I giggled. "What?"

His hands moved from his sides, to his stomach, like he didn't quite know what to do with them. Finally they stilled on the blanket on either side of him. "You're in control," he said.

"I--" I stared at him, then, of their own accord, my eyes travelled from his face, along his chest, to… "Oh." My cheeks flushed.

"All I ask is that you be merciful," he said, a smile curving his lips. "Don't torture me too long."

I hesitated for just an instant before moving closer to him, draping my upper body over his. It was my turn to trace the planes of his face, the line of his brow and his nose, the curves of his lips. He smiled up at me, his eyes filled with understanding and patience.

My lips brushed his, tentative at first, but then need rushed through me. I found myself straddling him, feeling his heat against my core like a brand, and…oh, Maker, I wanted _more_. I lifted my hips, shifted, and suddenly he was _there_, and it hurt, but only for an instant. He groaned against my lips, a rumble in his chest that triggered a desire deep within me to hear it again. And again. I rolled my hips, and we began moving together--hesitantly at first, since neither of us knew this dance. But our bodies did, and they were all too eager to share it. His hands flew to my waist, his fingers kneading my skin, anchoring me…then his thumb dipped down and brushed against me where we joined, and I flew apart once more. Alistair's voice merged with mine as we both shouted our release.

I fluttered to his chest, spent, loving how his heart thudded beneath me.

"Maker's breath," he gasped. "If I'd known it was going to be like _that_, I would have insisted on it long ago."

I chuckled, satisfaction purring through me. "You would have, would you?"

"Absolutely. Perhaps at Ostagar."

One of my hands smacked his chest. "You're a fool."

"That I am," he agreed easily. "A fool who loves you."

I propped myself up to look into his eyes. "Truly?"

"Truly. For the rest of my life. Which, hopefully, lasts longer than a couple of days." He sighed, and some of the afterglow surrounding us faded. "Maybe I should--you know, just talk to her."

Morrigan. "No, it was a bad idea. I can't ask that of you. I should never have mentioned it."

"But--"

"Riordan will succeed." I tucked myself against Alistair's side and he pulled the blanket up to cover us. "Stay with me. Please. I don't want this night to end."

"Nor do I, Kiann," he breathed, pressing his lips to my forehead. "Nor do I."


	15. Vanishing Point

**Vanishing Point**

I screamed when Riordan fell from the sky, tossed off the archdemon's back like a loose scale. One hand reached out, as if I could pluck him away from death--but he thundered into and through the roof of an already demolished house, and I turned away, gagging.

Alistair caught my eye and we shared a look. I put all of the emotion I could into my gaze, so he would see it, so he would know. He would not die today. I would not let him.

And the fight continued.

Swing the sword. Cast the spell. Swing the sword. Cast the spell. After hours of uninterrupted fighting, my movements were automatic. I could barely feel my arms. I'd tossed back so many lyrium potions my head felt like it was floating. Oghren's battle roar had definitely diminished in volume, and even Zevran was starting to look winded. Rage glittered in Alistair's eyes, rage and determination.

He _would not_ die today.

He'd awoken me the morning after our shared night with a tray of breakfast brought to me in bed. I hadn't had much time to enjoy it, but the sweetness of the act wasn't lost on me. As often as we could during the march to Denerim, we'd allowed ourselves contact--holding each other's ungauntleted hands; sitting around the fire in the evening, wrapped in each other's arms. Our companions said nothing, allowing us to indulge ourselves. Morrigan, true to her word, had vanished. Until I'd seen Riordan plummet like a stone, I'd even begun to hope that we might make it through this.

No longer. Now I knew. I would die on the roof of Fort Drakon. That was my purpose, the fate I'd been led to by being a Grey Warden.

And I was strangely calm about it. Accepting, even. I could do this; I _would_ do this, to save Ferelden, my allies, the armies, but, mostly, to save Alistair.

We poured onto the roof of the fort. My steps faltered as I watched the archdemon--so close now, Maker…it was so big--dispatch a half dozen soldiers with hardly any effort. Riordan had left his mark on the beast, shredding one of its wings with his sword, which prevented the dragon from flying any distance. It was trapped on the roof.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded at Alistair.

He raised his sword above his head, and his voice rang above the shouts and sounds of fighting. "For the Grey Wardens!"

He charged the beast, Oghren and Zevran with him, as I held back to summon the armies. The Dalish were the first to respond; they fanned out beside me and released volley after volley of arrows. They did little damage, but even the most patient trickle of water would wear away a mountain.

I threw every spell I could think of at the beast. Some burst upon its skin without so much as a mark; others caused it to roar in fury. Finally, I'd used the last of my mana, and I had no remaining potions. I unlatched my sword and entered the fray.

It roared at me, saliva spattering against my armor, and I thought of all the dreams I'd had that featured this dragon. The terror that had held me in its thrall, gripping my throat as I awoke and preventing me from uttering a sound. No more. I might die today, but so would it.

Alistair saw an opening and darted forward, leaping onto the creature's neck. I stumbled back, my heart in my throat. He shoved his sword between the armor plates cascading along its spine, and the archdemon screamed as blood sprayed. It faltered, like it couldn't hold up its head any longer, but it wasn't dead. Stunned, gravely injured, but not dead.

The templar jumped off the dragon, rolling as he hit the ground, then rose to join me. I stepped forward, my eyes on the motionless mountain of a form, my sword ready.

"Kiann, wait."

"I'm not letting you do this, Alistair." My hands flexed on my sword hilt. "I'm as much a Grey Warden as you, and this--"

"I believe I'm the senior Warden now," he said.

"You're going to pull that on me? Only when it's convenient, I see." I shook my head, a slight smile pulling at my lips. "Where was this senior Warden after Ostagar?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I'm here now. And I won't let you do this."

"Like you have a choice." The words of a spell tumbled past my lips, a glyph of paralysis; I aimed it a fraction in front of him so he'd trigger it with the slightest movement in my direction. Then I rushed toward the dragon.

A cool breeze flowed over me, removing my magic-based armor spell. Then something slammed into my back and I lurched forward. The sensation of energy tunneling through my magic, draining me, pinning me to the ground was all too familiar. _No. _I thought he'd never use that on me again. Damn it.

Alistair reached down and brushed a hand across my cheek as I struggled to rise. "I love you, Kiann."

"No," I whimpered.

He straightened. Squared his shoulders. Faced the fallen archdemon.

"Please, no." I had to get up. I had to stop him. My muscles wouldn't obey. I looked at Zevran and Oghren. "Please. Don't let him do this!"

"By the Stone, why are you fighting over who gets to kill the blasted thing?" Oghren scowled and shook his head.

My breath caught. They didn't know. I had to explain, make them understand--

Alistair roared, blade held overhead, and charged.

"No!" I pushed myself to my knees, tried to launch myself forward, but I fell hard against the stone of the roof.

The templar ran his blade along the soft underside of the dragon's neck as it raised its head above him. Blood showered down, coating his armor. The archdemon's head collapsed back to the roof. Alistair paused, staring down at it.

Now. I had to move _now_, damn it.

I lurched to my feet and ran, my steps awkward, unsure. My legs did not want to cooperate, but I wouldn't let them give way. A few more steps…Maker, _please_. A few more steps, and--

Alistair plunged the sword into the archdemon's skull.

A column of light flared upward, surrounding him. My lungs seized. My heart skipped. No. I couldn't be too late. It wasn't too late; there was still time, I could still push him aside--

He arched his back, his hands fastened to the sword's hilt. The light poured into him, through him…consuming him. A final surge thrust out from the archdemon, a spray of color and sound that threw me backwards, stealing my sight and my hearing.

And it was over.

I lay on my back. The sky slowly returned as my vision cleared. Cheering wound its way through the wool plugging my ears, a buzz of joy and happiness that couldn't touch me.

I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to see. Maybe if I closed my eyes, I could let myself drift into the Fade. Yes. I would happily give myself over to a sloth demon if it meant I could live a dream with Alistair, forever.

Anything rather than face this world without him.

"Warden? Kiann. Do you live?" Zevran's voice came from far away.

I concentrated on regulating my breathing, on letting go. Oblivion beckoned.

"Is she--" Oghren now, even further away.

"She's alive, but she's not responding. Alistair?"

"He ain't quite as pretty as he was, but yeah. He's breathing."

My eyes snapped open. I shoved Zev away, and pitched forward onto my hands and knees, half-crawling, half-dragging myself to Alistair's side. Oghren had unlatched and removed the templar's blackened armor. I could clearly see his chest rise and fall beneath his stained linen shirt. The skin of his face had burned, blistering in places, and his hair smoldered, but he was alive. Alive!

How could he be alive?

"Wake up," I shouted, grabbing his shirt. "Wake up, damn you."

"Kiann?" He blinked his eyes open. It took a moment for them to focus on me. "You're all right. Is it--is it dead? Did I do it?"

"It's dead." I smacked my fist against his chest. "Why aren't you?"

"Do you want me to be dead? Considering how much my face hurts it--_ow_--might not be a bad idea."

"No, I don't want--" A sob heaved out of me, and another. "Maker's blood. You're alive." I threw myself onto his chest.

"Yes, alive. And in pain. Let's not forget that." A hand came up and stroked my hair gently. "I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know if it would work, and--"

"You wanted to tell me what?"

"I went to see Morrigan after you fell asleep that night." I pushed up to stare at him, and he shrugged.

"You went from my bed. To hers. After making love to me, you…"

"Technically, it was _my_ bed to hers." He winced at my expression. "All right, yes, not helping."

"After you were so vehemently opposed to the idea? You did it anyway?" I shook my head. "Why?"

His gaze softened. A bloodied hand reached up to push the hair out of my eyes. "I realized that even if I took the killing blow, I wouldn't be saving you. I saw it in your eyes. You would have followed, somehow, someway. Wouldn't you?"

My first instinct was to lie, to deny it, but I couldn't. I'd been on the cusp of letting go, drifting into the Fade. If Oghren hadn't said anything…. I nodded. "Yes."

"And there you have it."

"You let me think you were going to die!"

"Well, there wasn't much time to explain it, was there?" He took a breath and shook his head, grimacing at the movement. "Morrigan assured me that she didn't need to be with us for the spell to work, just in the general area. So I told her to leave, but to follow discreetly. I couldn't stand seeing her, not after that. But I didn't know if it would work, and I still thought Riordan--" He sighed. "It wasn't exactly something I could blurt out while we were neck-deep in darkspawn."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "So you slept with another woman."

"I'll point out that it was originally your idea."

"And you used that--that templar spell on me again!"

He glared at me. "You expect me to apologize for that? You tried to paralyze me!"

"Children, children." Zevran tsked his tongue. "Perhaps we can continue this conversation elsewhere? The archdemon is beginning to smell. I fear I'll never get the odor out of my hair if we remain here much longer."

It took both Zevran and Oghren to get Alistair onto his feet. I wasn't all that steady on mine yet, either. We hobbled to the staircase leading into the fort, the surviving members of my army that were left on the roof cheering our progress.

At the door to the stairs, I paused and looked back over the rooftop. At the hulking form of the dead dragon. "We actually did it," I breathed. I looked at Alistair to find his pain-filled eyes gleaming at me.

"We did," he said. "Not bad for a barely Harrowed mage who doesn't want to be a Grey Warden."

"Didn't. I _didn't_ want to be." I smiled up at him. "If you're with me, though, I think it'll be all right."

"That can definitely be arranged." He draped his arm over my shoulder, and we left Fort Drakon behind.


	16. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Anora's formal coronation was held a month later, when the city of Denerim had begun to show signs of recovery from the Siege. More than half of the buildings in the city were damaged in some fashion, but rebuilding was in progress. The citizens who'd been able to flee to the surrounding countryside during the battle began to trickle back through the gates. The Market District reverberated with merchants' calls once more as evidence of the darkspawn invasion was erased.

Ferelden's nobility had gathered, once more, in the Landsmeet chamber to greet Queen Anora. I stood at attention, Alistair at my side, as the Queen turned to address her subjects.

"My friends," she began, her smooth voice ringing through the hall, "we are gathered here to honor the heroes responsible for ending the Blight. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Kiann, she who united Ferelden and amassed the army necessary to defeat the darkspawn, and Alistair, he who slew the archdemon."

The chamber erupted into applause and cheering as we stepped forward to join Anora on the raised dais.

"Grey Wardens, it's hard to imagine how you could have aided Ferelden more," the Queen continued. "As an expression of our gratitude, I would offer you each a boon of your choice."

I bowed my head. "I ask only that the Grey Wardens' sacrifices not be forgotten again, your Majesty." My lips curved at Alistair's sharp intake of breath. I'd thought that request might surprise him.

"An excellent point, Warden. A monument shall be built to honor Riordan, Duncan, and the rest of the Wardens lost at Ostagar. Let it also be known that the arling of Amaranthine, once the land of Arl Howe, is granted to the Grey Wardens, where they can rebuild and strive to live up to the example of those that came before them." The Queen raised her brow and regarded my fellow Warden. "And you, Alistair? I'm almost afraid to wonder what you would request as a boon."

"If you're worried about that lovely crown, you needn't be, your Majesty," he said with a slight bow and a wide smile. "It looks much better on your head than it ever would have on mine."

"I'm glad to hear it." Anora chuckled.

"For my boon, I simply request your Majesty's indulgence, for a moment."

Anora's brows dipped in puzzlement, but she nodded. "Granted."

"Thank you." Alistair removed his gauntlets, then pulled mine off to join his on the floor. His hands were warm and strong and large, dwarfing my slender ones as he gripped them gently.

He fell to one knee and looked up at me. My breath hitched.

"Kiann, I made you a promise before the final battle, a promise that you would know my intentions if--_when_ we survived. The time has come, and…well, I can't think of a better time to declare them. This is either going to go spectacularly well, or be an utter embarrassment. Typical of my life thus far." One corner of his lips curved up. "We have been partners in everything over the last year, since Ostagar, and I can't imagine fighting another battle without you. I want you at my side, always, if you'll have me."

"Alistair," I whispered, my heart pounding.

"Will you marry me?"

I stared at him. The Landsmeet chamber fell away, as did the Queen, as did our companions. There was only him and me, a templar and a mage, who'd managed to find in each other a bulwark against the encroaching darkness.

"What if--what if there are Grey Warden rules about this kind of thing?" I'd always wondered that, after hearing Morrigan berate Alistair for "fraternizing" with me.

"Seeing as we're the only two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden, I think we can make up our own rules, don't you?" He pressed a kiss to my hands. "Say yes, Kiann."

"Well, you _are_ the senior Warden," I teased, "and I really shouldn't disobey a command from my superior…so, yes."

A stunned smile bloomed on his lips. "Really? You'll marry me?"

"Yes, I'll marry you, you fool." I chuckled. "If for no other reason than to laugh at the irony every day. A mage and a templar."

He frowned. "For the thousandth time, I was never a full templar!"

"I know," I said, tugging him to his feet. "But hearing your protests never gets old."

"Maker's breath, woman. Don't make me change my mind." His eyes twinkled, though, so I knew he wasn't serious. "Before I forget--a replacement for the rose." He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small circlet wrought in gold, with roses etched into the metal. "It's not much, but--"

"It's beautiful," I breathed as he slipped it on my finger.

"Shall I declare you husband and wife, then?"

I turned to Anora, stunned. I'd nearly forgotten where we were. "Can you do that?"

She laughed, the sound musical. "I'm the Queen, my dear Warden."

"Then, if I can modify my request for a boon?" Alistair arched a brow and Anora nodded. "Your Majesty, I humbly request to be married to this amazing woman."

"Done." Anora smiled widely. "After everything you've accomplished for Ferelden, it is the very least I can do in return. Thank you, Wardens. May the Maker smile upon you and your union."

I turned back to Alistair, a smile on my lips, and he gathered me close for a very thorough kiss. Warmth flowed through me, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt complete. Whole. And I couldn't help but think, despite the darkness and hardships I'd endured, I'd had the Maker's favor all along. He'd sent me Alistair, after all.


End file.
